


Jim is John and John is Jim

by PandoraButler



Category: Doctor Who, Merlin (TV), Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Crowley (Good Omens) - Freeform, Crowley (Good Omens) Is Not Crowley (Supernatural), F/F, M/M, Two Crowleys, good omens - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2018-12-05 02:07:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 22,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11568093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PandoraButler/pseuds/PandoraButler
Summary: Sam and Dean are on a case, a strange case, something unlike they have ever done before.What is with this killer? What is with this cryptic message? Will they ever find out how to stop them?Along the way they meet the infamous Sherlock Holmes, who is supposed to be a /fictional/ character!And The Doctor, who they haven't heard of before.Can they solve the case?Before Richard Brook is killed?





	1. The Beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> I have only seen up to about S5 of SPN so please don't get angry if something is wrong in that regard ^^"

_"Arg! You swashbuckler! I'll make yee walk the plank if yee touch me treasure again!" the small boy pointed his wooden sword at the neck of his older brother. The child just wanted to play with his older brother, but the brother just wanted to slaughter the nuisance. The brother glared at the child. What right did he have to interrupt him? To walk into his room,_ **_his space_ ** _, and bother him with needless games?_

_"We have been over this Sherlock," the brother stood up and walked towards the door of his room. He dragged the arm of his younger brother with him. "Do you see this line? This is the line that divides my room from the rest of the house._ **_Don't_ ** **_cross the line!_ ** _"_

_"It be a pirate's duty to cross uncharted lands! Yee can't hold back me fightin' spirit!" the boy replied quite proud of himself. He wouldn't have Mycroft ruin his game. They barely spent any time together as it is. Why couldn't he just indulge him this once? Sherlock would never understand his brother. He would never know what went on in that ice man's head._

_"And 'yee' can't be a pirate. Pirates don't exist Sherlock. The only thing you can become is some low-life smuggler on a boat," Mycroft answered. He wouldn't play along. He wouldn't encourage Sherlock's imagination. He would damage it. He would smother it, forcing Sherlock to become like him. Forcing Sherlock to be emotionless, the high-functioning sociopath to share in Mycroft's misery._

_"You're wrong!" the young child's eyes teared up. His brother had always been like this, never understanding his hopes and dreams. No matter how hard the child tried to reach out, he was always pushed away. He would always be just outside that door...close enough to see but not allowed inside._

_"No Sherlock, I'm not wrong. You're just to stupid to understand anything. Now leave me alone!" the door slammed in Sherlock's face. The child didn't understand why his brother hated him so much. Did he do something wrong? No, of course he didn't. His brother was in the wrong here. Since Mycroft hated him so much...why shouldn't he just run away? Their parents were out of town for the weekend. Now is a good a time as ever to leave._

_Sherlock did just that, he packed a small bag of his most important things and left. The older brother didn't notice the door of the house slam shut or the sudden quietness of the house. He wouldn't notice until late in the night, or even the next day. The child went to the only place he could ever go, a neighborhood park. Mycroft didn't know anything about Sherlock, he didn't bother to learn, so there was no way that he would ever think to look in some place so obvious...if he ever tried to look that is._

_Sherlock sat on a park bench, one of the ones that was hidden from the world. One of the ones surrounded by trees you wouldn't notice it at a first glance. That was where he sat. The air was cool. The sun had already set and the neighborhood was an eerie quiet. The child feared the darkness for he always thought he heard noises in the dark, something scary and frightening. Creatures always hide under your bed or in the shadows, everyone knew that._

_"It's nothing to worry about. Mycroft always tells me I imagine things. I just have a great imagination. Yeah, that's it! It's just my wonderful brain playing crazy tricks on me! There isn't anything to worry about. Right Sherlock? Right...we're good. Me and I," Sherlock picked up his feet and brought them to his chest. He rocked back and forth trying to comfort himself on that park bench. A small piece of Sherlock hoped that Mycroft would get worried, that the brother would come looking for him. A small piece of Sherlock knew he never would._

_The noises stopped and another small boy crept out. Sherlock couldn't see very well in the dark but noticed a scarf around his neck. The scarf was big enough for an adult and looked a bit out of place on the small human. The boy jumped when he saw Sherlock, obviously scared at the random child sitting on the bench in the middle of the night. Who would have expected that? But then, who would have expected him to come out of the shadows?_

_"Hello, who are you?" he asked. Sherlock didn't give an answer, he hoped that if he ignored them long enough they would leave. The aspiring pirate's plans were thwarted when the child sat town next to him._

_"Who I am is no concern of yours," Sherlock grumbled. The boy smiled despite Sherlock's harsh words. Clearly he would not be leaving the runaway alone any time soon._

_"Well my name is John. This is my spot. I come down here every night to look at the stars, I want to go up there some day...to space," the boy looked up at the sky. He pointed to various areas and named constellations. Sherlock was intrigued by his fascination with space._ _Why would you want to go to a place where nothing was certain? There are so many chances you could die trying to reach the stars...so many things that could go wrong. The same could be said for Earth but Sherlock was still too young to think he could die at any moment._

_"So, do you want to be an astronomer or an astronaut?" Sherlock asked. The boy seemed like he was suited for war not space. Sherlock understood dreams more than anyone else, a pirate needs a good navigator. Maybe...one day...he can hire John and they can sail the seas together._ _In any case, he did not want to ruin John's hopes for the future like Mycroft had done to him._

_"Why can't I be both?" the boy asked. Sherlock laughed at the statement._

_"I suppose you can be," Sherlock began, "but with the amount of education it takes to be one...you'll be an old man by the time you get anywhere!" John laughed causing Sherlock to laugh again. Here they were, two children, away from their families and troubles. This was the only time Sherlock ever felt so happy, so alive. They talked more about the stars, John educated Sherlock about the solar system and the wonders of space. Time flew by and the conversation drifted to Sherlock's small case_ _of his most important things._

_"What about you? What do you want to be?" John questioned._

_"I want to be a pirate!"_

_"A pirate? Shouldn't you have a boat instead of that luggage?"_

_"You have to start out small and work your way up through the system!" Sherlock said. "This isn't for becoming a pirate, I ran away from home."_

_"You what?! Why?"  John was surprised. He had never thought about running away in his entire life. What could be so bad that someone would_ **_want_ ** _to leave?_ _John came from a nice family, sure they had their problems but he never once wanted to run away from them._

_"My brother, is a big jerk. He doesn't care about me so I left," John nodded understandingly. He himself had a sibling, a sister. They could be really troublesome at times but John knew they cared all the same...they just had a difficult time showing it._

_"I know what you mean there. My sister is really annoying! She is always trying to boss me around and tell my I'll never amount to anything," John said. "You can't let them win! You just have to go for it!"_

_Sherlock looked at his feet. He was always being told that pirates didn't exist and that it was impossible. Here he was, with a complete stranger, who told him to go for the impossible. It was the one and only time someone actually believed in Sherlock Holmes._

_"No," Sherlock began, "I should probably think of a different dream. Pirates are really awesome but...there has to be something more awesome I can be!"_

_"Hmmmm, well, what about a doctor? or a police man? They are pretty awesome! Saving lives and hunting the bad guys!"_

_Sherlock thought about it for a while, it was true that he noticed things without people telling him. Sherlock had gotten into trouble many a time for that. People always got upset when he corrected them. They always got mad when he told the truth._ _He never understood adults, or people for that matter. Growing up with Mycroft, how could he? His parents were never home to teach him the rights and wrongs of social conduct. They loved him for who he was not how he acted. They thought that was just part of their little boy's charm. However, when he grew up, they would realize that was probably not the best way to go about things. They would feel sorry for him but not know how to help him. Parents will always wonder what they did wrong, even the best ones in the world will question themselves. That is just a way of life._

_"Maybe I will be a detective!" Sherlock announced._

_"That is a great idea!" John agreed. "Have you watched the telly recently? There is this big case right now...some guy died in what they think is a 'tragic swimming accident'. You should try and solve the case before they do! You know, like a practice for the real-thing. I think his name was Carl Powers or something like that..."_

_Sherlock liked the sound of that. He made a mental note to check it out sometime. The night sky was getting darker and darker. John said he should probably head home soon. It was getting colder too. Sherlock hadn't prepared for this kind of weather._

_"It won't do a whole lot but it is better than nothing," John took off his scarf and handed it to Sherlock._

_"Are you sure you want to give this to me?" Sherlock asked. It seemed like something important to him but Sherlock could just be imagining things._

_"Of course! It'll be something to remember me by. Who knows if we'll ever see each other again..." John said. "I'll be looking for you though! Be sure to become real famous one day! I want to hear all about the world-wide famous detective!"_

_"If we meet, I'll be sure to tell you," Sherlock said. John left before the statement could be heard. Now Sherlock was alone again, with nothing but the darkness. He put on the scarf and sighed._ _He realized the fault to his plot._

_"I should head home..." Sherlock reluctantly admitted. "Mycroft might never notice that I'm gone, this plan was stupid."_

_Sherlock grabbed his bag and began his walk home. He looked up the whole time, trying to remember the constellations that John spoke to him about. While he was looking up, he didn't notice something in the corner of his eye. He felt a presence but thought it was just his mind playing tricks._

_"My imagination is a fierce thing!" Sherlock muttered and continued walking. He heard a loud  wheezing noise and turned to look. A giant blue box appeared next to him. Sherlock blinked, surely that wasn't there before! He blinked again and again but the box didn't disappear. What kind of sorcery is this?_

_"What's a 'Police Box'?" Sherlock questioned._

_"A Police Box is a British telephone callbox located in a public place for the use of members of the police, or for members of the public to contact the police," a voice said behind him. Sherlock jumped, that is the second time someone just appeared out of nowhere!_

_"Sorry, did I scare you?"_

_"No! You didn't scare me! I was just...uh...checking gravity!" Sherlock jumped again, higher this time. "Oh would you look at that? Yep! Gravity still works!"_

_The man didn't question Sherlock, he just raised his eyebrow at the boy. Sherlock took a good look at him, he was tall, with short dark hair_ _(almost no hair at all),_ _and really big ears. Who even has ears like that?_

_"Anyway, I'm the Doctor," the man said._

_"Doctor what?"_

_"Just the Doctor."_

_Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and frowned, "You can't just be called 'the Doctor'! You need a name!"_

_"That is my name. Really! I'm just 'the Doctor'."_

_"But Doctor who?"_

_The man smiled. Sherlock frowned. The boy somehow knew he would never get an answer. Adults never tell him the truth anyway. He made another mental note to become such a good detective, that people could never lie to him._

_The Doctor's eyes narrowed and he looked at Sherlock with a grave expression. Sherlock stared. The change was so instant it confused him. How can one be so happy but become so mean looking?_

_"Did you see anything strange recently?" he asked. "Like a monster? About this high with really big black eyes?" the Doctor gestured while he spoke. Sherlock thought he might have been mad. Monsters don't exist, just like pirates don't. Mycroft told him enough times._

_Sherlock remembered the thing he thought he saw, that weird shape in the corner of his eye. It couldn't be a monster...right? Monsters don't exist! Sherlock wanted to delete the idea but this guy seemed really desperate._

_"I think I saw one that way," Sherlock pointed._

_The Doctor's eyes lit up. He thanked the boy and ran in that direction. Sherlock was left alone once more, this time with a blue box. Sherlock was curious, he wanted to know what the box looked like on the inside. The box seemed to call out to him, pulling him to the door. Sherlock's hand almost touched the door before pulling his hand back._

_"No!" Sherlock told himself sternly. He grabbed his bag, (that he dropped when the Doctor scared him) and ran straight home. Sherlock refused to meet anymore strangers tonight. He was done. Done with this attempt at running away._

_He got to the house, ran up the steps, and slammed the door upon entering the house. Sherlock forgot completely that Mycroft may have realized he was gone. Why should he have to remember things like that? They weren't important._

_"Sherlock!" said an angry voice, it had to be Mycroft._

_"Here we go," Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mycroft would talk to him, pretend to give him a 'scolding' but Sherlock knew he really didn't care what happened to him._

_He never really would._

_Until it was too late to fix their brotherly relationship..._


	2. The Beginning of the End.

"Sherlock!" a familiar voice called out. Sherlock didn't know who it was or even where he was. What had just happened in the last few seconds? Had he blacked out? But why would he black out? The world was spinning before Sherlock's eyes even opened. It was taking a long time to gain control of his body. Stupid body. The brain is all he needs. Why do humans even have bodies?

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. He looked around, he was on the ground in an alleyway. A dark alleyway, there were no lights or anything. The sun was out. It was almost noon. The lights weren't needed if the sun was out. Sherlock groaned and placed a hand on his head. He felt he was missing something, like he had overlooked the obvious, like maybe he had forgotten something important. He attempted to deduce some more to get his brain back in working order. What  _had_ happened?

"What happened?" Sherlock grumbled still trying to make sense of everything.

"We were chasing Moriarty when you tripped and fell. Are you alright?" John looked at Sherlock concerned. Is that the only face on John that Sherlock will ever see? His worried expression? Sherlock sighed...some friend he is to John. Why does John still refuse to leave the annoying prick?

Sherlock got up, the memories came back to him. The plan, the magnificent plan that took two full years to create. Yes, he, Sherlock Holmes, was going to catch Moriarty once and for all. 

"We've got to get moving!" Sherlock announced and ran in the direction Moriarty fled. John followed behind. Was he even going the right way? He shouldn't trust his mind at the moment. How hard did he hit the ground? Sherlock pushed his questions to the back of his mind...only one thing mattered right now and that thing was Moriarty.

Sherlock looked around, the streets were flooded with cars, the city was flooded with people. Where was Moriarty? Where did he go? In the midst of Sherlock's thinking a man wandered into the street. He was ignoring his own safety completely. 

The man held up his hand in the air, he was holding some sort of object. The man was grumbling incoherent words to himself. Sherlock didn't notice this man, the man wasn't important to him at the moment. All Sherlock cared about was where Moriarty had fled but John _did notice._ And that small act of noticing would be the death of him.

"Sherlock," John said interrupting his thoughts.

"Not now John," Sherlock was too distracted by his own thoughts to humor the army doctor.

"No, really, Sherlock," John pointed. "That man has almost the same disregard for traffic laws as you."

Sherlock scoffed and looked at the road. He was planning on telling John how ridiculous he was being but something about the man caught his attention. He was wearing a long tan coat and suit that didn't match his casual shoes. Something about him seemed familiar to Sherlock. The detective had never seen this man before...but  _something_ was so nostalgic. 

The next few moments would happen too quickly for Sherlock to register. In the confusion that was the city, a vehicle drove down the road in at a terrible speed. It was disregarding anything and everything that was going on. John noticed that it was headed straight for the strange man in the street.

" **Hey**!" John yelled trying to get the man's attention. The man didn't hear him over all the horns and people talking. John tried again to no avail. He tried one more time before giving up and attempting the impossible. 

He was going to try and save this man.

Time stopped.

Sherlock froze, everything was happening too quickly. His mind was still not registering what John was doing  _because he didn't want to believe it._

John rushed out to push the man out of harm's way. The selfless doctor took his place. John wasn't thinking about what would happen to him if he did that. He wouldn't have cared either way, that was John's selfless nature. One of the things Sherlock admired but also hated about him. 

The vehicle didn't stop and John was hit. His body was sent flying into the vehicle's windshield, cracking it. The driver's air-bag didn't release, it was likely they both would be fatally injured. Sherlock didn't care about that. He only cared about John. 

Sherlock looked at the vehicle, at the bodies, his brain still not fully up to speed. Everything seemed like it was a plot to a bad story. A terrible video game that Sherlock had the misfortune of playing. The people rushing to help, the ambulance someone was dialing, it all seemed like an act, a scene from a movie.

The detective's eyes met with the man that had been saved. They stared at each other for a long time. The strange man mouthed something. What could he possibly have to say to Sherlock?

' _I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry._ "

Sorry? Sorry for what? For standing in the road while cars and people are everywhere? For being saved when you should be the one dying? What are you sorry for? For living? You should be. You should be very  _very_ sorry. Sherlock glared at the man. He wanted to give him hell for this but he didn't. John wouldn't want that.

What would John want?

What would John  _do_?

Sherlock fell to the earth. He lost the ability to stand while everything was going on.

" _What is this? Emotion. I shouldn't have this feeling but I do. I am feeling, why? WHY?! Because I'm a human? Why can't I be something else? John...why was it you?_ " Sherlock thought. He slowly got back to his feet and wandered over to the medics. They were taking him away, Sherlock should go with them,  _with him_.

He got up and attempted to convince them to let him in the ambulance. They pushed him away, telling him to go to the hospital by other means. The victims would need serious medical attention and the medic couldn't have distractions riding with them.

"Who cares about your distractions? He is my friend! I need to be with him!" Sherlock rose his voice without realizing. The medics apologized to him again and rushed into the ambulance. Sherlock was left standing there, in the street, alone. Everyone yelled at him to get out of the road. Why should he? This was the last street where he saw John alive. 

Sherlock stood their collecting the data of the incident. 

What are the chances that John would survive that crash?

"There are none," Sherlock muttered. "No matter what kind of medical treatment they give him...he won't survive...his chances are too slim," Sherlock realized. 

It wasn't supposed to be like this. He wasn't supposed to  _feel_ this. Sherlock was the one who had hoped to leave first. John was a survivor. Sherlock was not. John would get over Sherlock's death. Sherlock could not. Sherlock would end with John's death. Just like his childhood had ended all those years ago.

" _It's Redbeard all over again."_


	3. The End of the Beginning

"Sherlock, it's time you took a break," Mycroft's voice rang out.

"A break? You want me to take a break? Why brother? Are your family instincts finally kicking in after all these years?" Sherlock scoffed. His eyes were red presumably from lack of sleep, drugs, crying, or a combination thereof. Sherlock had been working cases non-stop since the incident with John. His body was slowly withering away, John's death had taken a miserable toll on Sherlock and everyone knew it. Mycroft knew it. Molly knew it. Mrs. Hudson knew it. Lestrade knew it. Even  _Anderson_ knew it.

"I suggest you take a long vacation." 

Mycroft hadn't changed one bit. He was still the same annoying older brother who thought he knew what was best. Sherlock hated it. How would  _he_ know what was going on through his mind? How could he possibly know how Sherlock was feeling? And here he was, telling him to take a vacation. What good would that do?

"Where would I go? I don't want to leave England! I don't even want to leave  _London_! Now get yourself out of my flat and leave me alone!" Sherlock shoved his brother out the door and slammed said door in his brother's face. He then retreated to his room (not forgetting to slam that door as well), sat on his bed, and stared at the wall.

" _I finally found someone who believed in me,_ " Sherlock thought, " _and then they went and died!_ " The detective grabbed whatever was nearest to him and threw it at the wall.

"Sherlock?" a voice whispered, "Sherlock are you in there dear?"

"Go away Mrs. Hudson! I don't want to talk!" The detective curled up into a ball on his bed. He was acting like a small child but he didn't care. Why should he care what people thought of him? He never did before and he wouldn't start now.

The door opened ever so slowly as Mrs. Hudson entered. She sat next to Sherlock on his bed and waited silently. When the landlady was sure Sherlock wasn't going to speak, she filled the silence with her own words.

"Mycroft wants me to talk some sense into you," she began. "I don't see the problem with you staying but clearly it has done some damage. Are you really so against taking a vacation?"

Sherlock stayed silent. He wasn't against the idea... _exactly_...it was more of he didn't want to leave the place he and John shared. Somewhere inside the detective he knew if he left he might never see this place again. Sherlock couldn't place his finger on why this feeling came to him...it was just  _there_.

"I can't leave Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock muttered.

"Why not?"

"If I leave, who'll protect the flat?" the way Sherlock said those words sounded completely idiotic. The detective with his beautiful mind and he couldn't manage to say the things he meant. What is the point in that? Sherlock mentally facepalmed, there was no way Mrs. Hudson would understand that.

"Oh, don't you worry about the flat dear! I'll take care of it," the landlady smiled. Sherlock knew that she would just keep trying to 'help' him, just like Mycroft would keep being 'worried' about him. There was no use trying to change their minds. They would only get more and more annoying as the time passed.

"Okay Mrs. Hudson, I suppose I should take a break from all of this," Sherlock reluctantly agreed. He didn't want to go. He never would but he knew once he proved them wrong, they might forget about the whole ordeal. 

"Oh good! I'll tell Mycroft," Mrs. Hudson was clearly pleased. She left Sherlock alone in his room to go call his brother. It was finally silent. He could finally be alone. Except that now, he would have to plan his 'vacation'.

"Maybe I'll go to America," he said aloud to himself.

...

"Was it really necessary for me to take public transport?" Sherlock grumbled.

"It's part of the experience brother dear," Mycroft said. "Don't expect me to set up a personal plane for you every time you leave the country."

"What is the point of you being the British Government if you don't even do that?" Sherlock complained. Mycroft rolled his eyes at the statement. Brothers will be brothers.

"It is time you head out. The plane is about to leave," Mrs. Hudson announced. That forced Sherlock to say his farewells and begin the tedious process of entering a plane. Honestly, this was Mycroft's idea and he didn't even give him a private jet or something? What happened to that entire plan for himself when he was being 'punished for his crimes'. Did he have to kill another creep like Magnussen before Mycroft would help?

When the detective finally reached his spot on the plane, someone was already there. The man was wearing a strange outfit consisting of a bow-tie and a fez. Sherlock sighed, his seat was next to the window...that meant an awkward interaction trying to get there.

Sherlock muttered an 'excuse me' before sitting next to the strange guy. As Sherlock looked at the man a little closer he realized a sense of familiarity. 

" _I have seen him before,_ " Sherlock thought. " _No, not him...he was different...but different how?_ "

Sherlock's thoughts were interrupted when the man held out his hand, "The name is John Smith. It's a pleasure to meet you! Planes are fun aren't they? A masterfully made creation! Would you believe I have never actually,  _properly_ , ridden in one?"

The detective ignored the gesture for a handshake and replied, "The name is Sherlock Holmes."

" _John Smith is an obvious alias. What is the point in using a false name? Who is this guy? A runaway...that's obvious by the stolen clothes..._ " Sherlock's mind raced on and on trying to find the solution to this enigma. Who was the strange man? Why does Sherlock keep meeting people he feels he has already met? How many times would this strange phenomenon happen?

While Sherlock's mind raced the man kept babbling on about useless things. The plane had already begun it's flight but Sherlock sensed something was wrong. There were things wrong with this scenario in every direction.

First, if the plane had begun flying why couldn't he hear the noise of flight? Second, the baby a few rows up should have started crying but it hasn't. If a plane were rising the air pressure would change and cause it's ears to pop, (along with everyone else's). It is only normal for a baby to cry at that weird sensation because they are too young to know what is going on. Thirdly....where did chinny bow-ties go?

Sherlock looked around he spotted John Smith near the back of the plane. He was crouching in the corner staring at something Sherlock couldn't make out. The detective was curious and made his way over there too. He wanted to know more about this 'John Smith'. The only way he was going to find out anything is if he followed him.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock questioned.

"What are  _you_ doing?" he asked back.

Sherlock disregarded the question and kneeled next to the bow-tie wearing freak. There was a giant crack in the plane. The detective stared at it in awe. Something like that just didn't make any sense. Nothing was making sense anymore. Was Sherlock still thinking properly? Could this be one of his drug induced fantasies?

"How is that possible?" he said aloud. The crack began to open, shedding a weird light as it did.

"There is a crack in the fabric of time, two points that should have never met...and they have," the man took something out of his pocket. The object looked strangely familiar.

" _Where have I seen that before?_ " Sherlock thought long and hard before it hit him.

That guy... _the one John saved._..had a similar object.

"You," Sherlock glared and grabbed the collar of this man's shirt, " You were there! I don't know how you changed your face but you are definitely the same guy. Because of your careless actions, I lost my best friend!"

"What are you talking about?" John Smith stared into the enraged eyes of Sherlock Holmes. He began to recognize them. "I remember now. Your friend saved me...well not me, obviously," he said gesturing to his face. "But me all the same..."

Whilst Sherlock and the man were distracted in this moment the crack opened more. It opened rapidly...the detective and the stranger didn't notice the change until it swallowed them whole.

_Two places that should have never met and they have._

Those places being...

The world of Sherlock Holmes and

The world of Sam and Dean Winchester.


	4. The Need for a Case.

"Hey, Dean, look at this," Sam pointed to an article in a newspaper. It wasn't much but he was running out of ideas. They had gone so long without anything interesting happening that Dean even suggested walking dogs for some cash. Normally they would be thankful for the relaxation period but it was just making them more restless of what would come later.

"'String of mysterious killings seemingly irrelevant but police thinks it's a serial killer'?" Dean took the paper and read in more detail. "I don't get it, you think this is our type of case? It could just be a crazy wack-job killer."

"I don't think that is what is happening, there have been various signs of...not natural things going on too."

"Not natural? Care to explain?"

Sam opened his laptop on the table and showed Dean various articles on the internet referring to the case in the newspaper.

"So you already looked it up? And you are just now deciding to tell me?" Dean rolled his eyes and sat down in the chair next to his brother. The two were, yet again, in a motel. They had lost count of how many days they were in this one...with nothing to kill, where else would they go? There was no need to travel without a purpose, (besides running from the police).

One of the articles titled: 'Mysterious Killings...new serial killer?' listed various people that have died within a short time of each other. The only thing connecting these people to each other was a message. At every scene of the crime,  **kcolrehsteg** was placed. It baffled the police and confused civilians. Normally killers would choose something a little less confusing and a bit more to the point.

'Kelly Klarkson, Carl Christian, Oscar Oswald, and Lillith Lexington all died in completely differing ways. Is the killer experimenting? Are two different people doing the killings? The deaths range from brutally violent to surprisingly instant. Police can't explain the logic behind these deaths...'

"So, what? We have a split-personality psycho on our hands? Leave that shit to the police," Dean groaned. He had gotten so used to doing nothing that he didn't really want to go back into the monster-killing. Who would? It's a terrible life but the alternative was living in this motel forever.

"I've got a feeling about this one," Sam said. He didn't have a logical answer but he just couldn't leave this one alone. Something was nagging at him, from the back of his mind. It was almost like someone, or  _something_ , was calling to him for help.

"What is with all the weird names? That can't be a coincidence..." Dean pointed to the list of dead people that have died so far with the message. The first letter of the name was exactly the same as the first letter of their last name. For all of them. But why? What was the reasoning for that? If they could find out maybe that would be their first clue, (since it was obvious that Sam wouldn't let this one go).

The lights to the motel room flickered for a brief moment. Sam and Dean both looked at each other. Was that on purpose or just their imagination? It happened again and they realized it wasn't their minds playing tricks, something was really happening. Just when they thought it might be a circuit freaking out the lights flickered once more, then again, then again, then again, on and off more rapidly as time progressed. It was almost like a creepy strobe light until they stopped flickering altogether.

"Dean," Sam said staring at the wall. He wanted to point to it but his arm just wouldn't move. Sam was too entranced by the wall to remember how to work his limbs.

"What?" Dean asked turning his head to look. The wallpaper had been torn off completely, replacing it was the message 'kcolrehsteg'. The message flipped back and forth between blood-splattering red writing to yellow spray-paint. Over and over and over again it was written so that there was not a blank space left on the wall.

"Still think it isn't our type of case?"

...

The two brothers were attempting to compile any sort of clue as to what they were looking for. Anything relating to the victims or what killed those victims. Sure, they could narrow the monster down to a couple of things but flickering lights wasn't a whole lot to go off of.

"I just don't understand the killings," Sam angrily said throwing his hand in the air, "they don't make any sense! The only common thing between them is the first initial and first last initial. Otherwise, they aren't related, they aren't even from the same part of the country! It's like a kindergartner took a crayon and scribbled over the U.S." Sam gestured to the map he was holding.

Sam and Dean were sitting outside a cheap restaurant with research sprawled about on the table. The killings seemed to have stopped so the brothers couldn't even rely on that to get more information. They felt like mice being toyed with by some cat, and it wasn't a pleasant experience.

"Uhm, excuse me," a scrawny male walked up to the table. He was disheveled and terrified. His voice shook as he spoke and his face was pale. It was like he had seen a ghost, (which he very well might have). "A-are you Sam and Dean?"

Sam and Dean looked at each other a little surprised. They hadn't seen this guy before in their lives...so how did he know them?

"What's it to you?" Dean glared at the already terrified male.

"I-I don't mean to be a bother," he said putting his hands up to defend himself. "I just wanted to a-ask for your help. You guys kill supernatural entities right?"

Sam and Dean were even more intrigued by this stranger. How did a stranger find out about them? More like,  _how did he even manage to find them?_

Sensing their questions before they even asked, the guy spoke again, "I'm not a creep or anything! I just wanted some help! I think I'm being haunted or something...I didn't think anything would happen to me in this small town. I'm just a story-teller for children! But then I got this message that those people in the news have gotten...it's freaking me out! Then my lights started going crazy and I even found some gooey black stuff leaking out of some of my walls. I just looked up some specialists for exorcism and such...Ghostfacers seemed like such total dweebs but one of their videos had you two in it. You were the only ones that actually seemed like you knew what you were doing and then today I ran into you so I just..." the guy spoke quickly and rambled on and on. He was getting more and more nervous and kept running his hand through his hair, making it even more disheveled.

"Kcolrehsteg?" Sam asked now interested.

"What?" he stared confused.

"Was that the message you got? You said it was the same as the people in the news..."

The man nodded. "Yeah, that's right...It is all over my ceiling, walls, floors, mirrors, it just keeps showing up," the man cringed at his own speech. This was doing a number on him.

"Can you give us some time to think about it?" Sam asked.

"Huh? You mean you'll actually consider helping me?" he said. Some of the color returned to his face and his eyes lit up with a flicker of hope. "If you do decide to help me...this is my address..." he said placing a crumbled up piece of paper on the table. "Thank you, bless you Sam and Dean... _bless you_ ," he said walking away in a hurry.

"So are we really going to help that nervous wreck?"

"Do you have any better ideas? Besides, he is our biggest lead and the most helpful one. 'Black gooey stuff' has to be ectoplasm...ectoplasm means we are dealing with a ghost. Now that narrows it down quite a bit, don't you think? A whole lot better than flickering lights and some random scrambled message," Sam explained.

"Ghosts, I remember ghosts, remember ghosts? We used to  _only_ come across ghosts! Now we have demons, angels, and all that crap," Dean leaned back in his seat and looked up nostalgically.

"Richard Brook."

"Richard who?" Dean looked at Sam quizzically. He clearly not following Sam's train of thought at all today.

"Richard Brook, that's the guy's name. He doesn't fit the pattern. His name should be Richard Rook or something....why is the ghost breaking its pattern?"

"Maybe he just decided to switch things up a bit?"

"Kelly Klarkson, Carl Christian, Oscar Oswald, Lillith Lexington, and Richard Brook. It doesn't make any sense at all," Sam wrote the names out on a piece of paper. "Why would a ghost change things if they are habitual obsessive creatures?"

"What about this makes any sense? Why would a ghost scribble over the U.S. and kill people if ghosts are usually tied down to one spot?" Dean paused staring at the piece of paper. "Wait a second, do you see that?" he pointed.

"See what?"

"The letters. If you write them like that...." Dean grabbed the pen and circled the first letters of each name. "They spell kcolrehsteg....well the kcolr part. The ghost is killing in the same pattern as the note it leaves behind. It isn't the who it kills...but the note. It's trying to say something but it must be getting scrambled on this side of the veil."

"But what's the message?" Sam asked.

"If I knew that, I wouldn't be sitting outside a cheap restaurant trying to find clues to this patternless ghost."


	5. The Need for Clues.

"So...kcolrehsteg," Sam began to speak. The two brothers were on the road and the car had been experiencing an awkward silence. Super awkward. The kind of awkward you experience in classrooms after the teacher asks a question but no one raises their hand. That kind of awkward. It isn't the fun awkward after a good joke, it's the creepy silence the moon gives off that makes you feel like there is something in the dark. Dean hadn't said anything since they left, he didn't even turn on the radio to fill the air. Sam didn't know what was wrong but it was freaky enough to want to start a conversation.

"Kcolrehsteg," Dean repeated.

"What do you think it means? Is it like a place? A food? A person? Maybe some hidden country on the other side of the planet?"

"Maybe it is a bad translation of the Danish work Kalvesteg," Dean offered. He had learned that word trying to impress a Danish girl one time. It failed miserably. It didn't help that all Dean was interested in was food. Couldn't he have set that obsession aside to try and learn a better word? No, no he couldn't. Guys will be guys, but Dean is a whole new level.

"What?" Sam said. It was unusual for Dean to know trivia. Especially foreign word trivia. That was Sam's thing. He was the smart one, well, by research and knowledge smarts. Dean could tell you all about the stuff that won't get you an A in school.

"It's the Danish word for roast veal. Don't ask why I know that. It's a long story."

"Ah, that makes more sense," Sam understood now. Of course it would be food related. There wasn't much that Dean liked outside of food, weird music, and old tv shows/movies. The perfect modern-day geek. "I don't think a ghost would share your obsession with food," he concluded.

"You never know. It is completely possible."

The two brothers were on their way to Richard Brook's house. After the many failed attempts to find any more information without his help, they decided it was time to give the tortured soul a visit. They would have done this a lot sooner but Dean was too stubborn. He didn't want to have another interaction with the disheveled storyteller. Sam personally didn't mind the guy, he seemed nice enough. Maybe if they had met under different circumstances the two might have been friends.

"What was the address?"

"7437 W Smithfield," Sam read off the note. It was crumpled up so some of the letters were harder to read. 

"7437?"

"Yes, that's what I said," Sam rolled his eyes, he had already repeated the address like 30 times. What was Dean thinking about that was so important? You know, besides a certain angel that he hadn't seen in a while.

The car door slammed shut, Sam and Dean had arrived at Richard Brook's house. It wasn't too big but it wasn't too small either. It was just the right size that you could tell Richard made enough money to live off of. The two brothers walked the sidewalk to the front porch, making sure not to stand out too much. This neighborhood was the kind where everyone secretly judged you from afar. It always felt like someone was watching you and not in the good way, (if  a good way even existed).

**"I am  
** ****|7|4|3|7|  
** ** ****locked."** **

The house was a dark blue with a sign above the house number and a sign below. Along with the strange door number signs, the door had faded letters on it. Something else had replaced those "I am" and "Locked" signs before. You could just barely make out the words "Police Box".

Sam knocked on the door. There wasn't a response so he tried the doorbell, (which sounded like a really weird wheezing noise). Still no response. 

"Do you think something happened to him?" Sam asked his brother.

"I hope not, he is our biggest lead. Maybe he is just out?"

Sam shrugged. If worst came to worse they could just pick the lock or enter through a window. They had done that enough times without permission before. Surely Richard wouldn't mind a broken window since he was the one that wanted their help in the first place, and in order to help Richard they would need to see  _any_ clues the house had to offer.

"I can't believe you actually came! Please, come in," Richard said allowing them into his house.

Kcolrehsteg.

That mystery message.

It was everywhere.

In various lettering and sizes. The ceiling, the carpet, the walls, the furniture,  _everything_. The only thing that didn't have the message was one spot. A single shelf of an entire bookcase. On said shelf contained the various books by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle about one particular sleuth:  _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, The Return of Sherlock Holmes, His Last Bow,_ The  _Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes,_ etc.

"Now that's just freaky," Dean pointed out the shelf. The two brothers walked over to it and stared in awe. How could that be the  _only thing_ unaffected? What purpose was there to leaving it out like that? The two brothers didn't know now but they would find out soon enough.

"I am obsessed with Sherlock Holmes. I even made the sign on my door as an inside joke to myself," Richard scratched his head nervously. He and the ghost clearly had something in common but he felt he had to explain the shelf dedicated to the detective.

'I am 7437 locked'? Neither of the brothers understood and both stared quizzically at Richard Brook. The question 'What did it mean?' showed clearly on their faces.

Sensing they didn't understand, nobody did, Richard explained by taking out his phone. It was a small flip phone, nothing fancy, he didn't have a whole lot of family or friends...just some people for work. His job as a storyteller would often be very spontaneous so he had to have some sort of communication.

"7437. 7: PQR ** _S_**  4: G ** _H_** I 3: D ** _E_** F 7: PQ ** _R_** S," Richard emphasized the important letters while he said them.

"I am SHER locked," Sam laughed. "That's pretty clever."

"But why include the 'locked' part? Why not just have lock?"

"Because the brand of my door lock is Sherrinford," Richard said. He didn't have a good explanation for it. The man just came up with it one day on his way home from a story-telling gig he did at the library.

The brothers stopped the conversation there and began examining the house for anything that might lead them to the mystery ghost. If the ghost wasn't tied to a location then it must be tied to an object. What was the object? If there was even an object...and how was it moving around the countryside? Did the ghost possess someone to gain its freedom? That was the more likely scenario. This ghost was probably possessing some poor chap out there and using their body to try and send its message. The ghost  _only_ seemed to care about the message...there was the possibility that the message was somehow connected to revenge but that idea didn't seem to be coming together yet.

"I found something," Sam called out. He had wandered into one of the house's bathrooms. Black goo filled the sink and started seeping out of the walls. Ectoplasm. It had to be. "A little more than something it seems," he said to himself. No one had come to his call yet so there was no one to hear him anyway.

The door to the bathroom slammed shut before Richard or Dean even got there. The sink continued to be filled with the gooey black substance and a small hedgehog crawled out of it. The hedgehog's face was unrecognizable, probably a side effect of being possessed for so long. Sam couldn't help but stare. His mind wasn't reacting to the animal, it was just too shocked about it  _being an animal_.

"I didn't think it was possible for ghosts to possess animals....well humans are animals so..." Sam muttered. The hedgehog didn't make any violent moves and just stared at Sam for a while as if waiting to see his reaction. The ghost and Sam continued this until the ghost felt safe enough to do what it came for, it started mouthing something. Sam couldn't quite make out the words even if they were repeated many times.

"kcolrehs teg?" Sam wondered. It was clearly saying the message left behind with the bodies...but separating them somehow. 

"Sam?!" Dean called from behind the door trying to open it. The hedgehog stared. It almost glared at the door, realizing that it didn't have much time anymore it began using the ectoplasm to write on the mirror. The letters it wrote were backward, similar to the kcolrehsteg, however these letters made more sense. 

The door burst open and the hedgehog quickly scampered off out it, not wanting to face the wrath of being exorcised or anything like that. It was too soon for the ghost to leave this world. It still had something very important to do first.

Sam and Dean stared at the mirror, trying to understand the new piece of information.

"Get Sherlock?" they said at the same time.

 


	6. The Need for Sherlock.

"What does that even mean?" Sam stared at the letters confused. 

'Get Sherlock'. It obviously meant Sherlock Holmes. Who else could it mean? The ghost had already shown that much by leaving the shelf of Richard's most prized books untouched. There wasn't any other fictional character by that name (who was quite as popular).

The character was first introduced in  _A Study in Scarlet_ in 1887 as a brilliant detective. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, two of the most famous characters throughout the fictional universe. They weren't real. They couldn't be. Otherwise they wouldn't be fictional anymore. Sherlock Holmes was just based off of a real person. That's all.  _That doesn't mean he was a real person._  

Sherlock was fictional.

So how could they find a fictional character?

If fictional characters were real, there wouldn't be any point to fiction. No magic or mystery. No aliens or ghosts. Reality would be fiction and fiction would be reality. What is the fun in that?

Some would disagree, some would say it would be the best thing in the world if their fictional characters turned out to be real.

Richard Brook is one of those said people.

"Sherlock Holmes is real?" Richard Brook giggled to himself with delight. There was nothing more amazing to him than the idea of meeting your favorite character in real life. Nothing at all like it. Actors weren't simply enough. Sure you could meet them but actors  _aren't them_. It just isn't the same.

Whilst Richard was fangirling (or fanboying) over the idea of meeting Sherlock Holmes, Sam and Dean were contemplating the entirety of the message. They now had one more piece to the puzzle. Where is the rest? They had the message but what were they supposed to do when they found Sherlock? What was the detective like anyway? All Sam and Dean had to go off of was the image from the books. The man with the magnifying glass and the funny hat. Not to mention the Inverness cape.

"What? Are we supposed to make fliers with a hat and pass them around?" Dean scoffed. The message provided so much but so little. It was pointless.

Just when they thought nothing more unusual could happen today, a man with a tan coat walked in holding this glowing object and pointing it at each of the three.

"Nobody move! I've got a sonic screwdriver and I'm not afraid to use it! Which one of you is the evil hedgehog?!" the man said continuing to look at each of them sporadically.

"Dude, calm down," Dean said raising his arms above his head. "Don't hurt yourself with a screwdriver. None of us are the ghost."

"How do I trust you?" the man walked over to Dean. The two were nose to nose with the man's eyes staring deeply into his. The lack of consideration for his personal space caused Dean to take a step back (or two).

"How do we trust you?" Sam asked. "You just burst in here holding, whatever that is, and start asking about an 'evil hedgehog'." When the stranger turned to look at Sam to begin his retort he noticed the mirror with the ectoplasmic words still written on it. The man's face lit up with glee. He was right. The 'evil hedgehog' had been here after all.

"So the evil hedgehog was here! Now we have to find the sleuth! But you, who are you?" the stranger asked Richard Brook. He had skipped over Sam and Dean completely. 

"It is rude to ask for an introduction before introducing yourself," Richard spoke. He wasn't as confused about who this person was. He could tell. Or at least, he thought he could. Richard wasn't quite sure yet but he would know for sure if the stranger gave him his name...or lack of name rather.

"Oh, right," the stranger placed his 'sonic screwdriver' in his coat pocket and smiled, "I'm the Doctor."

"Doctor Who?!" Richard clapped his hands together and became even more ecstatic. His assumptions had been correct. This was in fact the tenth doctor from the British television series. To think that two of his most favorite characters would come to life in one day! Richard couldn't have lived a better moment.

"Doctor who?" the two brothers glanced at each other. Things were getting stranger and stranger. They were fine with demons, angels, and paranormal things...but apparently it was too confusing to believe that fictional characters could cross the screen and become real living people.

"No no no no," Richard shook their question aside, "not 'Doctor who?' Doctor  _Who_. You know? Like the British show? It is like one of the most popular sci-fi things next to Star Trek and Star Wars. The Doctor and his Tardis traveling around space saving planets and fighting enemies! It's wonderful!"

"I have a show?  _What_?!" the Doctor seemed honored about the whole thing. "Who did they cast me as? David Tennant? I bet they did. They should. He is a handsome fellow. Love him," the Doctor waved his hands around excitedly imagining David Tennant playing him.

"I can't believe this. It hasn't even been 5 minutes and another fictional character is coming to life," Dean put his hand to his head and groaned. This wasn't an ordinary case. Never would be at this rate.

"Ah, but you're mistaken. Because in my world, you're the fictional characters," the Doctor pointed to Sam and Dean. "The two brothers in a '67 Chevy impala driving down the road in search for the creature that killed their mother but it doesn't just end there. Nope. You get caught up in a whole bunch of things and end up doing a whole bunch of stuff. I really don't understand the fascination with you all. You just die and come back repeatedly."

"I don't think some guy flying around in a blue box is much of a story either. At least we kill things. What do you do? Cause wars with planets?"

"I  _save_ things as a matter of  fact."

"We save  _people_."

"Okay, so sometimes things don't work out...but at least I have my two hearts in the right place. You can't tell me you humans haven't made any mistakes. I'm sure you have. I've seen enough of your show to know."

"Ladies, calm down," Sam interrupted. He looked at the Doctor and got to the point, "Why are you here?"

"Because I am looking for an evil hedgehog. I thought we went over this."

"No, why are you  _here_? In our world."

"Ohoho," the Doctor laughed. "Well funny story," he scratched his head nervously. "I killed John, turned him into an evil hedgehog, apparently. Sherlock probably isn't too pleased with me but without my TARDIS I can't do a whole lot to try and make it up to him....but I have no idea how I ended up here. I just woke up here one day no TARDIS no nothing, except my sonic screwdriver. I can't change the past to bring John back but I do want to apologize."

"The Doctor killed the doctor?" Richard gasped. "Also can I touch the screwdriver?" he said becoming distracted. He was shocked that Watson was dead but he was more interested in the Doctor at the moment.

"Not until you introduce yourself."

"Ah, right, I forgot about that...I'm Richard Brook...a storyteller, it's on DVD." 

Satisfied by the fact that he now knew Richard's name, the Doctor reached into his coat and pulled out the sonic screwdriver again. He handed it to Richard who fiddled with it happily.

"Do you know where Sherlock is?" Sam asked. 

"Haven't the slightest," the Doctor shrugged. He hoped that by looking for John he would find Sherlock somehow. That hadn't been working out unfortunately.

The room got quiet, each of the 4 men could sense a presence outside their own. Something was here. Was it the same ghost? The one with the message? It didn't feel like that though, it felt darker, much worse. The lights dimmed but didn't turn off completely. A window, that was near the bookcase with the favorite shelf, opened through a gust of wind. In that window was the hedgehog. It was the same one Sam had seen. It was the same one the Doctor had talked about. So, if it was the same creature, why did it feel like a completely different ghost? A more menacing ghost...one that if it was still human would probably be a criminal only heard about through the news.

All eyes were on the hedgehog. If the face was recognizable, you would expect to see an evil grin of satisfaction. The ghost had successfully done what it wanted and now was moving into the next part of its plan, whatever that plan may be. It jumped off the ledge and scurried over to Richard Brook's feet. The man was too terrified to move. He had forgotten the reason why Sam and Dean were here in the first place, to exorcise his menace. The man feared for his life and as such was too terrified to move a muscle. that fear wouldn't help him escape this ghost. It would only make it easier for this ghost to do what it wished.

The possessed hedgehog stared at Richard's face. Richard was trying to avoid looking directly at it but couldn't help himself. He ended up staring back. The hedgehog mouthed something that none of the 4 could catch. Richard, who had reached a breaking point ran into the bathroom (bad idea) and slammed the door shut. Sam and Dean ran into the kitchen to find some salt while the Doctor just sort of picked up his screwdriver and stood there awkwardly. He dealt with aliens, not ghosts. He didn't have a clue about how to deal with one. He just figured he would leave that to the professionals of this world.

The hedgehog leaped out of the window and climbed its way over to the bathroom window. Richard, realizing his mistake, tried to escape again. It was futile, even if he did manage to run away again the ghost would just follow him. Why should he continue running? 

The hedgehog turned on the faucet to the tub and stared at Richard. The man knew he was going to die. There was no point in avoiding it so he went willingly. Accepted his fate. Richard Brook stood in front of the tub and stared at the water that had begun to fill it. So this is how he would die? By drowning in his own tub? That wasn't a very interesting way to go.The hedgehog was becoming restless. What was taking so long? Why didn't he just stick his head in the water already? 

He was just about to begin the process when Sam appeared behind the hedgehog. He was holding small bucket of salt and threw it at the hedgehog through the open window. The hedgehog let out a bellowing screech. It didn't sound human but it didn't sound like an animal either. The ghost was fighting a losing battle for its body. A shadowy presence was forced out of the small hedgehog and disappeared. It wasn't forever but it was a small victory.

Richard stared in disbelief at the small body on the windowsill. How long had that ghost been possessing this body? Is the hedgehog even still alive?

"It's not dead but at least it is gone," Sam said.


	7. The Game is Beginning.

**Killer is back! Another death. Edmund Exavior was found in a dumpster cut up into tiny pieces. Killer becoming violent again? Police still can't find a suspect...**

Sam read the news article aloud to Dean. The three of them (Sam, Dean, and the Doctor) had left Richard's town to try and find out more about where the ghost was tied to. They had figured it would be sent far away enough for Richard to be safe. Just in case that wasn't the scenario, Sam and Dean gave the man an intro lesson to exorcism. 

Which apparently hadn't saved him. 

The ghost wouldn't go out of order. Richard Brook was the 'R' to kcolrehsteg an important piece of the message. So what had happened to him? Sam and Dean tried every trick they knew to find out about his mysterious disappearance. It was like he had fallen straight off the Earth! Almost like he never existed in the first place...but three people wouldn't remember someone if they never existed...so what had happened to the disheveled geek?

"Hey, that weird timey stuff of yours wouldn't erase a person from existence right?" Dean asked.

"Not that I know of. I guess it could be true...but why would you have remembered? I can understand me knowing who Richard is because I'm a time traveler but you guys should have forgotten him."

"All we can assume is that he is dead," Sam said. There was no reason for him to be alive if the ghost had continued to go on its killing spree. Something about Richard had always been 'off'...like he was special to the ghost in some way.  _Why_?

Richard Brook. He is a storyteller obsessed with the Doctor and Sherlock Holmes (although, he didn't know that they were actually real beings). There shouldn't be anything special about him but the ghost must have its reasons. Sam and Dean almost wished that they could just come into contact with the ghost and talk to it. No fighting, just a conversation...to understand its ways. 

Then there was Sherlock. Sam and Dean didn't even know where to start with him so they just conveniently forgot of his existence. Maybe they would just  _happen_ to come across him in their search for the Richard and the ghost? Like they could be that lucky...one could always hope.

"What do you say we take a break from all of this and go on a nice nature walk?" the Doctor suggested. They had been stuck in one room for the whole day, it was time for some fresh air. Right? What could go wrong? Nothing, usually.

The two brothers agreed with that suggestion and looked around for some parks. Turns out, there was a nice waterfall trail not too far from Baker's Inn (the place they were currently staying at).

All three men set off for their nature walk to breathe the fresh air and enjoy solitude with nature.

_As if._

It didn't turn out that way.

They couldn't get their minds off of the case at all. The Doctor kept spewing theories about the importance of Richard Brook in the car ride. Sam had started reading Doyle's novels to try and understand the case better. Dean, well, Dean was just being Dean in all of his Dean glory.

"I'm telling you he isn't dead!" the Doctor said. "I don't know why yet but he can't be dead, it just doesn't add up."

"Weren't you the one who suggested this 'nature walk' as a means to get away from the case? Why are you continuing to talk about it?" Dean grumbled.

"Ah,  _right_ , sorry," the Doctor apologized. He was too excited to be in another world apart from his own and was getting a bit carried away with it all. Wouldn't you be? Who cares if he has already been here for well over a few months. Every moment was filled with more excitement. It all just kept getting better and better for him. He truly is a mad man in a blue box (but the box is still missing at the moment so he is just a mad man).

They had arrived at the waterfall. It was pretty to look at from the bottom. The way the water fell from the small pond above it was enchanting. Had they somehow entered a different realm? No. They were still here, still waiting for new information, information that might never come. There was a trail to the top of the falls but it was rocky and looked the opposite of safe. Some people were reported to have died before trying to reach the top, (that's what it said on the park's website). All three felt just looking would be enough to satisfy this adventure but the longer they looked at the beautiful water the more they realized...something felt very weird.

"Isn't that..." Sam pointed to a tree nearby the top of the falls. It was Richard's sweater that he had been wearing each time Sam and Dean had seen him. When Dean asked about it one time Richard had told him it was one of his most prized possessions. Why was it here? Why would he leave something he practically never took off? He wouldn't. They weren't anywhere near Richard's town...so how could it be  _here_? Is it just creepily similar to the one he wore? Or was it the same one?

It didn't add up.

The three looked closer at the cliffs to try and see any other clues but when you look for something it is hard to actually see it. You only notice the things you don't search for.

"Look at that tree," Dean said. A tree stump, on the opposite side of the falls, had the letters r, a, c, h, and e cut out of the bark. Who would stab a tree like that? Except the ghost that is.

"How did you see that from here? I can barely make out the letters," the Doctor squinted trying to see. Even with his glasses he couldn't tell what they were.

"It says 'rache'," Sam said. He didn't have to look very hard to tell. It was a reference to  _A Study in Scarlet_ , Rache, the German word for 'revenge'. Sam then realized that everything involving Richard Brook had a hidden meaning. Richard Brook itself was a hidden meaning. That is why he stood out from the other victims.

Richard Brook, no  _Rich Brook_ , in German the words for 'the rich' are 'die Reichen' and the words 'the brook' are 'der Bach'. In other words...Rich Brook is Reichen Bach. Reichenbach. The Reichenbach Falls, the place where Sherlock Holmes and Moriarty had their last fight. Doyle tried to kill off his character. He tried to end his novels once and for all but his fans rioted and forced him to continue.

"Doctor, didn't you say that you killed John?" Sam asked.

"Well, I didn't mean to do that but yes...I basically did kill Dr. Watson," the Doctor laughed nervously. "Why?"

"If the ghost is Dr. Watson...why is Sherlock's nemesis being referenced? James Moriarty, I could understand if Moriarty was the one to kill Dr. Watson and that is why John is still here trying to find Sherlock...but he didn't die because of Moriarty...so  _why the falls_?"

"I thought I had seen something weird back when you forced the ghost out of that hedgehog...the ghost looked like an outline of two people conjoined twins style. One body but two heads," Dean pointed out.

"So what you are telling me is," the Doctor paused trying to figure out what they meant, "this ghost is somehow two entirely different ghosts that are fused together somehow? Has that happened before?"

"Nope, but it does explain why the ghost seems to have two personalities."

"So it wasn't just a moody spirit after all?" Dean said.

...

"What was our room number again? 201? 220?"

"220," Sam answered Dean as the three hovered before the inn door. The Doctor was distracted with other things, more specifically, their neighbor trying to open room 221. The male had a scarf around his neck and dark circles around his eyes. He had clearly been smoking, the stench of cigarettes was overpowering along with other things, drugs, maybe alcohol. He was wearing a jumper that didn't fit his figure at all, maybe it was a terrible Christmas present...or just a means to an end to hide the injection scars.

"Excuse me," the Doctor spoke placing his arm on the man's shoulder. The stranger brushed it off and glared at the invasion of his space. He wanted to be left alone. That is why he had come here to begin with, a crappy inn, to be left alone (and because he was spending most of his money on things that worsened his health instead of helping it).

"What do yo-" the stranger began. He stopped mid-sentence and blinked slowly as if trying to shake the image from his mind. It failed. He hadn't been wrong. The Doctor was in fact standing before him.

" **You** ," the glare worsened. Sam and Dean didn't think anyone but them would have that kind of look on their face. "The Doctor, time lord from Gallifrey, disappearing and reappearing throughout my timeline. What happened to your face? You're too young...so you don't even remember anything do you? About why I'm here. You're the wrong one...I need chinny," the stranger managed to open the door to his room, when he did he waltzed in and slammed the door in the Doctor's face. His angry combination of sentences took a while to sink in. No one really understood it while he was talking, it was too fast.

"Please tell me druggy isn't..." Dean began.

"Yep. That my friends, is Sherlock Holmes," the Doctor announced gesturing to the door.


	8. The Game is...uhm...something...

The Doctor. 

That is what he called himself.

Just, 'the Doctor'. 

No name, not even the same face half of the time. 

Just 'the Doctor'. 

Sherlock woke up on the ground staring at the blue sky. Where was he? How did he get there? All he remembered was that he had been on a plane. All he remembered was that he had seen... _him_. The Doctor. They were talking. But what happened after that? A crack. Yes, that seems right. A crack opened up on the plane. Did he go through the crack? How? If he had fallen from that height he should have died. How did he get  _here_?

"Excuse me sir, are you okay?" a voice asked Sherlock. The detective turned his head to look, it was Moriarty. No, no, it's not Moriarty. Sherlock blinked to correct his eyes. It wasn't the consulting criminal, it was just an average man. Just the average bloke asking if he was okay.

"I'm fine, thanks," Sherlock ignored the hand that was offered to him, stood up, and walked away. There was no point in him staying on the ground. He might as well find out where this is. That accent...had he made it to America after all? But how did he get from the plane to here? What happened to his memories? They were all jumbled together...

Sherlock walked to the nearest library. Libraries are the perfect place for finding out where you are. The best place where you can learn the information undercover. If he could gain access to a computer and he could research a bit about what had happened. If he was lucky maybe he would even find out about the Doctor. 

Sherlock opened the library doors. In a corner there was a man. He was telling a story to some children, seemed harmless. The detective looked around some more...there weren't very many people here...that was plus. Sherlock walked to the nearest computer. He couldn't help but overhear the story being told by the person he had ignored. He didn't understand at first but then it hit him.

Moriarty.

Sherlock shook his head. No. Not again. It isn't Moriarty. Stop being so paranoid! Stop being so obsessed. Your obsession with Jim caused John to die. Sherlock, why don't you ever learn?

"This is the story of Sir Boast-a-lot. Sir Boast-a-lot was the bravest and cleverest knight at the round table, but soon the other knights began to grow tired of his stories about how brave he was and how many dragons he'd slain, and some of them began to wonder, 'Are Sir Boast-a-lot's stories even true?'" Sherlock overheard the words. They seemed so familiar. They were so familiar...it can't be him. It can't be Moriarty. Why would he also be here? Wherever  _here_ was...He had nothing to do with the plane. Sherlock tried to ignore the storyteller. He didn't want to give him a good look, he didn't want to deduce him. It was better to just leave it be. Better to believe that it wasn't Moriarty at all. It couldn't be.

"Elementary, my dear Watson," a child next to him said. The small human was wearing a deerstalker hat and holding a magnifying glass. His friend had a cane. What in the world were they doing?

"Aww no fair! I wanted to be Sherlock this time! You always get to be him!" the friend said.

"You'll have to solve the case if you want to be Sherlock!" the boy giggled and ran around the library pretending he actually knew what deduction was. The boy eventually noticed that Sherlock was staring at him and he smiled. "Are you in awe of my amazing sleuth skills?" the boy grinned.

"No, not at all," Sherlock said turning back to the computer. Forget about the Doctor. Why did people know about him? Well, obviously John's blogs...but this is different. These children aren't pretending to be him...they are using the wrong colors and coats. Sherlock knew Americans were weird but he didn't think they would completely ruin a character for their own amusement.

"You're no fun," the small human pouted. He was expecting Sherlock to play along with him. If he had any knowledge of _the real Sherlock Holmes,_  he would have known that was impossible for him to do. Sherlock couldn't handle adults, let alone children.

Sherlock looked himself up on the internet and the library's databases. There were novels written about him. No, that's not right...he was a novel. He wasn't real. What does that mean? Did he imagine himself to be the detective? Is that what happened? No. It felt too real. It was real. It had to be.

But what if it wasn't.

What if Sherlock was just living a lie?

"This is wrong," Sherlock mumbled to himself. "This can't be right at all..."

Sherlock left the library. Sherlock left the town. He didn't know where to go but he left anyway. There had to be somewhere to go, some place to think about things. 

And so. He traveled the states.

He went all over America in hopes he might find something  _anything_ to help him figure out what had happened. He searched for clues about himself even read some of the books. They were all wrong. It was like someone had taken his life, set it in a different time period, and wrote a fictitious story revolving around things that weren't even real. Sherlock gave up on that. It was certain to him that he truly didn't exist in this place he woke up in.

So if he didn't exist...what did that say about the Doctor? Was the Doctor also a part of his weird delusions? Was he really not  _Sherlock Holmes_?

He found that to be true. 

The Doctor was a British television series. He didn't exist. None of it did. If the Doctor didn't exist, the last clue to who he was, he wasn't real either. Sherlock had fabricated his existence, made up John Watson.

It felt so foreign to him.

But that had to be the truth.

That was the only explanation.

Anything else that he came to understand didn't make a bit of logical sense. I mean aliens? Aliens aren't real. If they were real why would they decide to invade Earth? They would be more likely to leave us alone and invade a better planet or maybe because humans were so stupid they would want to kill us all off. Either way, we wouldn't have seen aliens for much longer than an instant.

That left his dreams. Every night he would imagine his past and go back. He would try everything to go back to the world in which he was real.  _Where he was Sherlock Holmes_. Even though he knew it was impossible. Even though he knew that. It was better. His dreams felt more like the truth than where he had woken up.

So he wanted to stay asleep.

He wanted to sleep eternally.

If John wasn't real, no one could save him from himself. Sherlock didn't want to live in a world where John never was. It was too sad. The idea never crossed his mind that he was in fact in a different dimension altogether. It never would.

The drugs, the Friday night drinks, the cigarettes. He was reverting back to his existence before John. Before Mycroft. Before all of that, just him and his terrible self. No one to understand him. No one to care. No one to try and help.

What was the point in pretending.

He was in America and the people he thought existed didn't. It wouldn't matter to figments of his imagination what happened to him. It never would.

So he separated himself into what he was and to what he thought he was. He put himself, John, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, all in a box. He placed that box in the depths of his mind and locked it away. There was no need to be 'Sherlock Holmes' now he was just a drug user in an inn far away from home.

Room 221 at Baker's Inn.

"My bloody head," Sherlock groaned entering the inn. His new neighbors at the inn were up all night talking so loudly about trivial things. Things Sherlock didn't bother to pay attention to. He no longer 'noticed' and 'observed' things. His eyes were so glazed over from his substance abuse it was easier to ignore people. One of the pros of this.

Sherlock wandered the halls looking for his room. He searched his pockets for the key-card but he couldn't quite find it.

"Blasted thing, damn Americans and their phobia of keys and coins," Sherlock finally found the thing and inserted it into the lock on the door. Someone put their hand on his shoulder and introduced themselves.

"Excuse me," the man spoke placing his arm on Sherlock's shoulder. The detective brushed it off and glared at the person. How dare he invade his personal space? What business could this stranger possibly have with him?

Sherlock began to speak, he was about to give this gentleman a piece of his mind. "What do yo-" the detective was about to snap. His eyes widened and his vision cleared. He could see clearly now who this person was. Sherlock blinked. He tried to take that image and force it out of his mind. What was the point in trying to remember the things he had locked away? The Doctor wasn't supposed to exist. He is a fictional character...they are both fictional characters. Just figments of someone else's imagination. However, this wasn't right. He knew by his very own eyes that wasn't the truth.

_He was Sherlock Holmes._

John wasn't a lie.

And this man caused John's death.

" **You** ," Sherlock glared. He ignored the two men behind the Doctor and focused his attention on him. Sherlock longed to punch his brains out but refrained from doing so. He didn't want to cause much more of a scene. "The Doctor, time lord from Gallifrey, disappearing and reappearing throughout my timeline," the detective spat. He was half tempted to point at the Doctor but instead he kept his hand by his side and clenched it into a fist. Sherlock was so furious his fingernails cracked the skin of his palm. He was bleeding. 

"What happened to your face? You're too young...so you don't even remember anything, do you? About why I'm here. You're the wrong one...I need chinny," Sherlock was speaking more to himself than to anyone else. His brain and his mouth were not communicating so his thoughts were being verbalized, some of them anyway. Sherlock's mind was moving a mile a minute. It had been so long since he had actually spoken so his mouth had a mind of its own. Sherlock opened the door to his room and slammed it shut. The detective didn't want anything to do with the Doctor or his companions. 

Sherlock leaned up against the door and slid to the ground. He looked at the imprints left behind by his fingernails. Sherlock's mind was attacking itself telling him all about how this wasn't possible. About how he shouldn't be here. But somehow it happened. Somehow this was reality. The detective looked at the ceiling and smiled ever so faintly.

"Do you hear that John?" a tear escaped from Sherlock's eye and slid down his face. He didn't know what was happening. The sleuth wasn't used to this kind of emotion.

" _You weren't a dream after all_..."

 

 


	9. The Game is Not What I Expected.

"Does anyone have any bright ideas about how we convince the drug addict neighbor of ours to cooperate?" Dean asked. The three unlikely friends hadn't left the inn since the night before. They were so shocked that Sherlock Holmes was actually this close to them. To think they never noticed before. What kind of person didn't notice that man? It wasn't like he was trying to hide.

Now that they had found him, they didn't want to have him run away so the three stayed in their room and waited. They waited for anything that might help convince Sherlock they needed his help.

"I haven't the slightest idea about that," the Doctor answered. He didn't know much more about Sherlock Holmes than Sam and Dean did. All he knew was what he looked like...and that he was rather full of himself...but that was the old Sherlock. The Doctor knew even less about what happened to this Sherlock. He didn't even seem like the same person, in many ways he wasn't.

"Are you sure, like positively sure, that is Sherlock?" Sam asked. He didn't want to believe it. None of them did. Sherlock Holmes wasn't supposed to turn out like that. Sherlock was supposed to be their magical answer at solving this case.

"We have no other Sherlock's around..." the Doctor said.

"Do you think if we bring him a pack of cigarettes he might let us in?" Dean offered. It was the best idea they had so far.

The three men went out briefly to get three different brands of cigarettes. They each held one pack and knocked on Sherlock's door eagerly. Everyone had to be a fan of this detective at some point in their life, right? Hopefully this silly scheme would work...

The door opened and a very cranky sleuth stood before them. The bags under his eyes had gotten worse and he was still wearing the same clothes as the first time they had seen him.

"What do you want?" he asked getting straight to the point. His voice was raspy and low. Did they wake him up? But it was late in the afternoon...how was he still asleep?

Sam, Dean, and the Doctor each held up their respective cigarette packages up as a peace offering. Sherlock just glared but accepted them regardless.

"I know you hate me and all," the Doctor began, "but you really are the last clue we have about this killer ghost...so please put your grudges aside for the moment."

Sherlock didn't answer, instead the detective opened the door and allowed the three men to follow him inside his room. It was messy from makeshift science equipment and various other things. Sherlock refused to allow the cleaning people into his room. That was one of the reasons it had gotten to look like this. The other reason was that he had been paying for this room for far too long and no one bothered to try and tell him to leave.

"Well this is tidy," Dean said sarcastically trying not to step on anything important.

"I don't want to hear that from you two," Sherlock pointed to Sam and Dean. He could tell they lived off of the road, it was obvious, there was no hiding what they did. The brother's line of work was a messy situation. Sometimes it would be worse than a crime scene... _sometimes_. Sherlock didn't care about who had the better job. He wanted to know why these weirdos decided that this was a great time to enter his life. What did they want? What did they  _need_ from him? It had been so long since he actually had a case. He needed every detail.

Sam closed the door behind him and now they were all in the inn's room staring at each other. Sherlock glaring, the Doctor with his stupid grin, and the brother's giving each other skeptical glances. They  _still_ didn't quite believe someone like this could be Sherlock Holmes.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked in his ever so gentle way.

"There have been some killings..." Sam began.

"You want to hire me for a case?" Sherlock interrupted.

"No. Well yes," Sam tried to think of a way to put it.

"The thing is there is a ghost and it knows you," Dean stepped in. "It knows you really well which means you know it too. You can help us figure out what it wants and maybe even the object that is tying it to this world."

"Ghosts?" Sherlock scoffed. He had no reason not to believe it...everything in this place was on its head. The detective still couldn't wrap his head around this idea yet. He didn't know what was possible and what wasn't anymore.

"Can't believe in the impossible can you?" the Doctor said. "Here you are, in another dimension and you still can't believe in what you can't see?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He didn't want to. The Doctor walked over to him and stared in his eyes.

The eyes are the gateway to the soul and the Doctor knew that better than anyone.

"What happened to you?" He said. "When you were a child you were so hopeful for the future. You wanted to be a pirate and run away to the sea...where did your imagination go?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," in truth he didn't. Sherlock didn't remember anything about his childhood except the abandonment he felt. The feeling that his brother would never care about what happened to him. The feeling of loss when his precious pet died.

He didn't want to go through loss again.

So he forced himself to forget everything that was special to him.

He locked away his sentiment and only remembered the facts. The science. The truth.

The truth is that he is the younger brother of Mycroft Holmes, that he can observe things without noticing he is even doing it, that he had a dog and it died. That's all he remembered. That's all he needed. Everything else could be erased but when he tried to do that with John it wouldn't work. He couldn't erase John...he couldn't. The most he could do was lock him up in the basement of his mind and try to ignore him. Even that was difficult.

"Enough of this," Sherlock was done. He needed the answer he wanted and he needed it now. Sherlock pulled a gun out of his pocket and placed it against the Doctor's head. If these idiots had taken even the smallest amount of time to observe the fact he had one, maybe they wouldn't be in this situation. "Tell me what you want."

The Doctor didn't even flinch. Sam and Dean didn't move from their spot. They knew enough about the Doctor to know he wouldn't die from this, not to mention they didn't really know how to stop a drug addict anyway. They dealt with monsters, not people. 

"We just want you to join the team," the Doctor said. His voice and face were the same as they had always been. He didn't even give any thought to the barrel against his head. Sherlock looked in his eyes, they were old, unlike his face. Sherlock saw himself in them, not the reflection but the same lost look. This man had lost someone important and was simply waiting for the end of his long life just like Sherlock. He wouldn't be afraid from death he would embrace it, just like Sherlock would.

So this plan wasn't going to make anyone talk. Sherlock had to change methods. He pushed the Doctor back and pointed the gun at himself instead. The detective stared at each of the three men seeing how badly they actually needed him. Although each of them felt they had wonderful poker expressions, Sherlock knew they were desperate. They were desperate enough to come to a man they didn't even know existed to try and figure out this 'ghost'. There was no way they would have him kill himself.

Dean raises his hand and tried to cautiously step forward. Sherlock turned the safety off and pulled the lever back. Dean stopped in his tracks, the detective was serious.

"You tell me what you want or I'll make sure you never have the chance to get it," Sherlock's finger hovered over the trigger. "Don't think I won't" he threatened "you've seen what I have lived like...I have no intention of surviving."

"Oh now don't say that Sherlock," a new voice sang from behind the door. Sam and Dean didn't know who it was at first but Sherlock recognized it right away. The Doctor was even more confused about it than the brothers were, however, he was still trying to think of a way to get Sherlock to remove the gun from his head. The Doctor didn't want the one person he felt he could relate to kill himself.

The door creaked open and a man stood grinning from ear to ear. His eyes weren't smiling with  his facial expression. No, they were more like pits, like two black holes swallowing everything in sight sending it to oblivion.

The ghost had appeared.

"Did you miss me?" his laugh echoed through the small inn's room sending chills down everyone's spine.


	10. The Game is On.

"I most certainly did _not_  miss you," Sherlock said. His finger was still hovering over the trigger, with the gun still aimed at his head. What made the ghost decide to enter  _now_  of all times? Couldn't he have chosen, oh I don't know, a few minutes ago? No, of course not, where is the fun in that?

"Oh come now Sherlock, I know you did, don't lie," the man walked over to Sherlock with a hop in his step. He was wearing a suit and tie with his hair slicked back. Sam and Dean recognized him, but didn't understand why. What was familiar? What wasn't? Who  _exactly_ was this person?

The man hugged Sherlock's arm (the one without the gun of course) and smiled at Sam, Dean  _and_  the Doctor, "isn't it funny how possessing a body can make someone look  _so_  different?" he said to no one in particular. Everyone stared at him, even Sherlock glanced his way, wondering what he meant by that.

"Richard Brook," Sam realized. The ghost had taken Richard Brook. That is why the body wasn't found...Richard wasn't dead, Richard was possessed, by this ghost.

Sherlock's eyes widened at the name. He knew what it meant. What were the odds that someone in this place would have  _that_  as their name? Coincidence? No, the world was rarely so lazy. Their worlds couldn't have been connected, could they? But why? For what purpose? Sherlock's mind was racing, trying to pick up the clues; however, it was so withered away...Sherlock couldn't process it all, not yet.

"I thought the same thing Sherl," the ghost said. He was still clinging to Sherlock's arm, for lack of anything better to do. "Who would have thought that my silly little name would end up being an actual  _person_? Can you imagine how happy that made me? Oh, good times, I'm sorry about this by the way," he said, gesturing to the body while looking at Sam and Dean, "but when I find a new toy, I simply  _must_ have it."

"Tell me one good reason why I shouldn't shoot you," Sherlock moved the gun to point it at the ghost's head. He only gasped, feigning surprise, he expected this, of course he did. And now, it was time, for him to reveal the big secret. It wasn't just  _him_  in this body, no, God no, there was another person too. This was the best part of the story, he wanted to cherish it as long as he could. Wouldn't anyone for that matter?

"Well by all means, have at it, I don't care what happens to Richard Brook," he responded, "but I don't think those two hunters over there would enjoy it, if you killed him. You're supposed to be on the good side and killing Richard isn't going to get rid of me. I'll just go and find some other poor chap to possess, although, I do like this body, it is rather nice..."

"Who  _are_  you?" the Doctor said. He was finally understanding a  _bit_  of what was going on. The Doctor had been so lost before, but now, he was starting to understand. The only thing left, was this individual, who was he? For what reasons did he want Sherlock so badly? That was the missing piece to the puzzle...the one that he couldn't figure out.

"Oh? Haven't you already figured it out?" the ghost frowned. He thought for  _sure_  he had made it obvious, maybe the humans just wanted clarification? Maybe. Whatever, it was about time he properly introduced himself, "I'm Moriarty, Jim Moriarty."

"Jim, James, John, I don't  _care_  what your name is, get out of Richard Brook," Dean spoke up. He revealed the container of salt that he had brought with him in case something like this happened. He held it, threatening the ghost, because he was going to save Richard, if it was the last thing that he did.

"You don't want to do that either," Jim shook his head, disappointed, once more. These people were all threatening him when he had just decided to be nice today! How dare they? How could they? He didn't even kill anyone in a while! So rude. Humans these days. They just don't know how to be nice. 

"Why?" asked Sam.

"Because," Jim said letting go of Sherlock's arm, "I'm not the one who wanted to come here," as he said those words, his eyes changed. They looked more human now, instead of being black holes they were kinder, well, they would be if the ghost hadn't immediately attacked Sherlock. The ghost tackled the detective and wrestled him to the ground. Sherlock, taken off guard, let go of the gun and groaned.

"You bloody _idiot_ ," he said. "You complete and utter fool. What did you think? Because I wasn't here you could go off and destroy yourself like a  _moron_?" There was no mistaking it. This was Dr. Watson. Any doubts the individuals in the room may have had, were completely erased now.

"John?" Sherlock stared at the face of Richard Brook, almost not believing it, there was no way to mistake him for anyone else, only John would yell at him for something like that. But really? John? Why was he connected to the ghost of Jim Moriarty? What even was a ghost? Sherlock was  _still_ having trouble processing it all. He was in a new place, a new world, with new rules and guidelines, he couldn't keep up.

"Don't 'John' me!" the army doctor yelled half tempted to slap Sherlock. Well, he was already pinning him to the floor, it was perfectly plausible to give him a bit of abuse too. John knew, that wouldn't change anything, the idiot detective had already caused enough damage to himself, anything John did would only reinforce Sherlock's self-loathing.

"Dr. Watson?" the Doctor gasped. It was  _true_? Jim and John were connected in someway, now all they needed to do was find out  _how_.

"He reminds me of a hedgehog," Sam said without thinking, even though the thought had probably crossed the rest of their minds, at least once...

" _I was a bloody hedgehog!_  I would have stayed a  _hedgehog_ , except that a certain  _someone_  decided to push Jim out of that animal," John glared at Sam. It was because of Sam that Richard Brook was now in danger. John wanted to avoid that at all costs, but the hunter ruined everything. John was trying so hard to keep Jim under control, but it wasn't working well for him, no matter what he did, Jim was  _always_  going to outsmart him. That is why he needed Sherlock, but the detective was too busy getting high to notice John was out there.

"So it's my fault Richard is now possessed?" Sam frowned.

"Because of  _you_  forcing us out of that animal, Jim was reminded that he could possess other things. He had forgotten that small detail and I wasn't going to tell him anything, but now this has happened," John gestured to the body he was in, "and there is no going around it."

Sam felt guilty about his mistake but there was nothing he could do about it now. He would feel  _more_  guilty if Dean forced John out of Richard, only to have Jim possess him again, or worse, someone entirely different. It would be better for them to just leave things as they were, and focus more on how to exorcise the ghost instead. Dean abandoned the salt idea completely, John was in control now, and the only person he was going to kill at the moment was Sherlock.

"Nobody move, I've got a fez and a screwdriver and I'm not afraid to use them," a stranger kicked the door open; making eye contact with everyone. He was wearing a bow-tie, and holding a fez, along with a sonic screwdriver, just as he had announced. The Doctor looked at him, feeling an odd sense of deja vu, this perfect diversion, was enough for Jim to take back control, and sneak out the window while everyone was focusing on the new guy. Sherlock stood up, this was the person he had been looking for, chinny. 

" _You_ ," Sherlock pointed, a bit dizzy from standing up too quickly.

" _Sherlock_?" he replied, placing the fez on his head and the screwdriver back in his pocket.

The two stared at each other, while the three bystanders were trying to comprehend what this whole thing was. Everything about this case was strange, and now,  _another_  person was getting involved. 

Just how many people did Sam and Dean have to meet, before they could just kill the ghost? And move on with their lives?


	11. The Man With the Funny Chin.

The stranger looked towards Sam and Dean, "I'm the Doctor," he said, ignoring Sherlock's obvious dislike for him. There would be time to deal with that later, for now, he should properly be acquainted with these folks.

"I thought  _he_  was the Doctor," Dean spoke, pointing to the male in the long coat. It was true, he  _was_  the Doctor. There are many Doctors that  _were_  the Doctor because that's how the Doctor works. If the brothers had taken the time, out of their  _ever so busy_  schedule, to watch a few episodes of the show, perhaps they'd understand that. Sure, it was  _just_ a show, but it wasn't that far off from the Doctor's  _real_  adventures. That's the great thing about fiction, you never really know if it  _is_  just a story.

"Well I am, but so is he, apparently, the sonic screwdriver is enough proof," the Doctor walks over to the Doctor and stares at him, "do I really end up becoming  _you_? What's so special about  _you_? And why am _I_  not a ginger yet?!"

"Yes, you do," the Doctor smiles, crossing his arms proudly, "and I'm not sure why I'm not a ginger. Maybe next time we can dye our hair, no? That would be fantastic, it would be a lie, but it would be a  _blissful_  lie."

"You can't say 'fantastic' that's the wrong catchphrase," the Doctor stated.

"If I remember correctly,  _you_  said, 'Are you my Mummy?' even though there was no one around you who would get it. So, your argument is invalid," the Doctor said while pointing to, well, himself. However, the two were interrupted when Sherlock yelled at them. The detective was fed up with this little 'reunion.' He wanted answers. He wanted to know, why  _he_  was here, why they  _all_  were here, and why John had to die to save this individual, who wouldn't have died anyway! What was the point to it all? Where was the logic? Absolutely nothing had made an ounce of sense, at all, since he arrived in this place. 

" _You_  killed John and  _you_  sent me here," Sherlock pointed to each of them as he spoke, "what do you two have to say for yourselves?" he questioned. 

" _Opps_?" they said whilst shrugging their shoulders in sync. Meanwhile, Sam and Dean were still catching up. There were  _two_ Doctors now? How were they supposed to differentiate them? Chinny and Long Coat? And was there going to be yet  _another_  Doctor showing up at some point in the future? 

"Can we get back on track here?" Sam said, "Jimjohn is gone," he gestured to the open window. He hadn't noticed  _when_  the ghost had left, but he was the first to notice his absence, "what are we going to do about it?"

"Wait, 'Jimjohn'?" Dean looked to his brother, "what kind of name is 'Jimjohn'?"

"What kind of ghost is Jimjohn? Your point? I see no reason why we can't call him what he is. He is two people, Jim and John, why not just call him that? Do you have any better ideas? We might as well call the Doctors Ten and Eleven, because why not?"

"Where did you even get the numbers ten and eleven?" Dean replied, clearly judging his brother's life.

"They roll of the tongue nicely? I don't know! That isn't the point, the point is: Jimjohn is gone!"

"'We'?" Sherlock spoke, "there is no ' _we_ ' there is only  _you_ ," he pointed to everyone, "I'm not going to join your little team just because you happen to be looking for the 'ghost' of someone I know. I have no interest in this."

"Listen here, Sherlock," Ten walked over to the detective, "none of us  _want_  to be here. My TARDIS was stolen from me. I want to get home just as badly as you do, but I can't do that, without your help. You would make this a whole lot easier on all of us if you just played the game. John is out there, he is still stuck in this world, his soul can't move on, do you know why? Because of you. You do this to yourself. You damage your mind with drugs, cigarettes, and alcohol. For what purpose? Because living is too  _boring_? Well, it seems pretty interesting now, so get off your lazy bum, and come  _with_  us. Do you really have anything better to do? The game is afoot Sherlock! Put on your silly hat and deal with it!"

"Three things," Sherlock began, raising his fingers with each item he spoke of, "First: It's 'The game is on.' Second: I don't wear the damn hat. Third: Get out. All of you. Get out of my hotel room," he stated. He didn't care, he didn't, it did not matter to him how correct Ten was in his statements. He wanted time alone, to think, about all of the options presented to him. Maybe, after that, he might join this stupid 'ghost hunting' adventure. But for right now, he just wanted to be alone.

All four of them left, albeit reluctantly, there wasn't anything else they could say. This man was the most stubborn man they'd ever met. He was practically a grown child! Nothing at all like what they expected 'Sherlock Holmes' to be. But had they met the real Sherlock Holmes yet? No, they'd only met the empty shell. What was the  _real_  man like? The brothers were eager to know, even if they refused to admit it aloud, who wouldn't be at least a bit curious? The person everyone has admired at least once in their life, wouldn't you want to know what he was like? What he was  _actually_  like?

The four stood in the hallway, each of them flinched when the door slammed behind them, "so, Eleven, why are you here?" Dean asked, he hadn't had the chance to before, so he might as well now.

"Ah, well, I had my TARDIS stolen too. I entered this hotel room by accident because I was trying to figure out why I sensed something familiar. Little did I know it was just myself! Why don't I remember meeting me? I find that a bit unforgettable," Eleven looked to Ten, who just shrugged in response.

"I haven't the slightest clue," Ten answered. The four of them went back to Sam and Dean's original room, to wait, hoping and praying that Sherlock might come around. 

They needed all the help they could get, and two Doctors wasn't going to help find the ghost, especially not if the ghost had told them specifically to 'Get Sherlock.'


	12. The Man With the Funny Hat.

Sherlock paced around his room. He didn't know what he wanted to do and he certainly didn't know what he did. There wasn't a logical reason for any of this. On the one hand: he wanted to find John. On the other hand: he knew John was dead, so what was the point? 

But, did he really want John to have a terrible afterlife just because he didn't 'exorcise' him? There were so many things he didn't understand, so many things he needed to understand, and so many things he didn't  _want_  to understand. Why couldn't anything just make sense? That would be so much easier.

Sherlock ran his hand through his hair only to feel how greasy it was. He looked in the mirror. Well, he would have looked in the mirror if it wasn't covered up. When did he do that? He had no memory of it, he had no memory of a lot of things...Sherlock took down the blanket and stared, hardly recognizing himself. Was this really what he had become? A slob? He was supposed to be a detective, the greatest detective there ever was, so why was he like this? This wasn't what he wanted to be. Certainly not.

Sighing, Sherlock covered the mirror again. It was time he took a shower, time he reevaluated what he had been doing with his life. There was a case, one of the most interesting cases he had had in quite some time. Why not accept it? What was the harm? Even if he knew John was dead. Even if he knew that after he did this, he'd never see John again...there was still the thrill of the chase. Who knows, maybe he might finally get his wish? Maybe he might finally die while searching for the doctor. 

No. Sherlock shook his head. He couldn't die, not yet, there were still so many unsolved cases back at 221B. Sighing, he plopped down on the floor. What was the answer to his question? Would he ever really know? Perhaps the greatest mystery would always be himself...

"The final problem," Sherlock said, "it really is staying alive, isn't it Jim?" he spoke. There was no one to hear him, no one to care, but that didn't matter anymore. He had to stay alive. He  _had_  to. That was the conclusion he had made. That was the reason he carried the gun, the fake gun, the one he'd threatened those two brothers with. It wasn't real, no, of course not, it couldn't be. If it was, it would be too much of a temptation. Sherlock would have killed himself, so long ago. No, it was a fake, it was just a lighter, like the one the cabbie had. Jim must have known, Sherlock didn't see how he couldn't have known. But, the guy did have a death wish, at least while he was alive, maybe he didn't now...it was irrelevant now...everything was so irrelevant now...

Sherlock stood up. He had made his decision. Or at least, he had decided what it was that he would do. He would help them, why shouldn't he? The Doctor was right, he was bored, he needed  _something_  to do. This  _was_  the most interesting thing that had been presented to him in quite sometime. Why not go out with a bang? Inter-dimensional travel? Brilliant. Ghosts? Spectacular. Why not even include some aliens as well?

The detective stripped himself of his clothing so that he might take a shower. The amount of grime stuck to his skin made him cringe. He really had let it get this bad. What a great way to introduce yourself to strangers. Sherlock could only imagine what Sam, Dean, and the two Doctors thought of him. That is,  _if_  they even thought anything of him to begin with. He wasjusta fictional character in this world. 

Sherlock looked around the room. He picked things up and threw things out. There was no need for them anymore. There was no need for any of this anymore. He had a job to do, and by golly, he was going to do it. Even if there would be drugs in his system for a few days. Even if he had to go through a bit of withdrawal, it should be fine, right? One could only hope...

The detective sighed, again, he didn't know the first thing about what he was getting himself into. Did it matter? He'd already made his mind up. He searched around, through everything, looking for the two things that mattered most. His coat and his scarf. Where had he put them? They had to be here somewhere. Sherlock couldn't imagine working without them. They were practically his identity. Although, he had no idea where they came from, or why he held such an attachment to them. Maybe it was just habit? It couldn't be sentiment, Sherlock had nothing to be sentimental about, did he?

An image popped up into his brain, a memory? His head hurt, trying to recall, he simply couldn't do it. The image changed, he remembered something else, the dog? Redbeard? Was Redbeard even a dog? Confused, Sherlock continued to look around. He ignored the headache, he ignored the memory, hoping that if he pretended it didn't exist, it might just disappear. However, memories aren't quite like that. One day, he would wish he  _did_  remember, but that day wasn't today, unfortunately. 

"I've found you," Sherlock said. He held up the coat and dusted it off to place it on the bed. The scarf was underneath it, how convenient. Now all he had to do was find some clothes. Yes, he  _did_  just look around for his scarf and coat with nothing but a towel around his waist. Try getting that delightful image out of your head. Did you expect anything else from the man who traveled to Buckingham Palace in a sheet?

When he was dressed, he looked in the mirror again. He recognized himself now but he still looked pretty bad. Well, that would change in time. Sherlock's hand hovered over the doorknob. Was he really going through with this? This ghost hunt? Yes, Sherlock shook his head. How many times would he have to remind himself of the decision he had made?

"The game, truly," he muttered, opening the door completely, " _is on_."


	13. The Man With the Funny Mind.

"Do you think he will actually come around?" Sam asked. He was currently leaning up against the wall with a cup, trying to hear what Sherlock was doing, and/or saying. How else was he going to find out any clues about what the detective was plotting? Certainly not from the man himself! Drastic times call for drastic measures...and Sam is just bored at this point.

"Of course he will come around! Why wouldn't he come around? I hope he comes around. God, if I gave that speech for nothing, I'll feel like a fool," Ten answered, he had been pacing around the room nonstop since they'd left Sherlock alone. He would have sat down but that would just make him fidgety. Fidgety Doctors are not a good thing, they start messing with stuff, and ultimately ruining it.

"I don't think he will," Dean spoke. Of course, he just  _had to_  go against the crowd. Good ol' Dean, ever the optimist. Don't worry though, soon, for sure, your little angel might show up to make you happy.

"Well no one asked you, did they? Mr. Grumpy Leather," Eleven snapped. The suspense was getting to him too now. If it wasn't for the fact that Ten was already pacing, he would be the one doing it. Well, I guess, technically  _he was_  doing it. Since, Ten and Eleven  _are_  the same person...timey wimey wibbly wobbly stuff going on here.

"I am  _not_  grumpy," Dean glared.

"But you do wear leather, don't you? So I'm not wrong, am I?" Eleven glared back.

"I am not exactly sure where you are going with this, to be honest. Leather and grumpy have no connection," Dean answered.

"Tell that to Hot Topic teenagers."

"Wait a minute," Ten stopped, looking at Eleven. He was obviously thinking about the Doctor before himself, who happened to wear a leather jacket. He was about to mention said connection, but Eleven cut him off before he could formulate a sentence. 

"Minor details!" he said, not wanting to admit the flaw in his logic, or the fact that he had been making fun of himself as well as Dean.

There was a knock on the door, and everyone turned their heads to stare at it. That couldn't be Sherlock, could it? Well, who else would it be? They weren't expecting anyone. So, it must be Sherlock. Right? That was the only explanation. The four individuals stood, in an awkward silence, while the person just knocked on the door again, a bit angrier this time.

Yep, must be Sherlock. There's the proof. That man simply wasn't patient. At all.

Sam was the one who made the bold move to answer the door, since  _clearly_  nobody else was going to do it. What were they all afraid of? Sherlock was just a man, right? What they  _really_  should be fearing were the two Doctors, considering  _they_  were the actual  _aliens_  in the room. 

Sherlock waltzed in as soon as Sam had opened the door, almost knocking the male off his feet, "I need  _all_  of the information you have, right now, and then I'll need you all to shut up until spoken to. I don't even want to hear you so much as  _think_. Understood?" Sherlock announced. Everyone nodded, unsure of why this was important. The brothers didn't even attempt to argue, they just pointed to the table with all of the information they had collected. The Doctors watched, eager to see what kind of performance Sherlock would give them. However, a 'performance' would never happen, considering it all happened in his mind.

Sherlock sat down, staring at it all, about to enter his mind palace. The four were told not to speak, so they didn't, even though they really  _really_ wanted to. Hadn't they ever heard of this technique? Of course not. It was times like this Sherlock missed John, at least  _he_  would explain things to others for him. 

The detective sat, reading anything and everything, trying to organize it in his mind. The names, the places, they all had a connection. Him, obviously, but what  _else_? What was different about it all? He looked at it again and again, trying to see the new pieces of information. Sometimes he caught things, sometimes he didn't, the drugs were still in his system, greatly impacting his abilities, and often time, not in a positive way.

The obvious, remember the obvious, what is the obvious  _here_? What is  _different_? Think about it, think hard. The first one was killed, yes, that's true. They  _all_  died though, what makes the first one unique? Something is special about  _the first one_. Why? What makes  _her_  any different? Sherlock tried to remember, everything he could, it was difficult, but he  _must_  do it.

"You," Sherlock said, pointing to Sam without looking at him, "how do you kill a ghost?"

"Well, usually you burn the bones," he began.

"And if there are no bones?" Sherlock questioned.

"Then the ghost is likely attached to something, in that case, you burn said item. Ghosts can't move freely unless they are possessing someone, so finding the remains or the item shouldn't be hard, theoretically."

"I'm sure we can safely assume that burning their bodies is out of the question," Sherlock spoke, "so there must be some sort of object that ties Jo-" Sherlock paused, he had finally made the connection. The others looked at him strangely, wondering why he just stopped talking, but his mind was racing, too quickly to speak and think at the same time.

Yes! That was it! The first killing's importance! Jimjohn killed someone that was relatively close to Sherlock. The person that was in this room, neighboring him in this Inn, where had they gone? He was too caught up in other things to notice, but their name had been so unusual he remembered it. Kelly Klarkson, the alliteration, who wouldn't remember a name like that? Why hadn't he realized it sooner? It had been staring at him in the face! 

This means then, that there must be an object, in his room, that tied down the ghost. But what was the item? Sherlock had many useless things in his hotel room, not to mention the fact that he didn't know if it was John's or Jim's object that he had. It had to be John's, right? Sherlock didn't remember having any objects given to him by Jim. So John it is. It can't be the jumpers, no, those were just Sherlock's investment that  _reminded_  him of John. They weren't actually John's...

"It's time to take a trip," Sherlock jumped up out of his chair. He was going to talk to the only friend he had made so far in this world. The four individuals followed him, why not? He seemed to have developed some sort of lead. 

"Where are we going, might I ask?" Eleven questioned, trying to keep up with Sherlock's fast pace. Literally and figuratively. 

"Camelot, of course," Sherlock answered, grinning.


	14. The Man With the Funny Scarf.

"So, let me get this straight," the male began, looking directly into the eyes of Sherlock Holmes. He had short dark hair with a red bandanna-like scarf around his neck. He also wore a well-used brown jacket, that was a tad too big for him. He stared at Sherlock, for a moment, before continuing, "you want me to give  _you_ , someone already high on drugs, one of my 'potions' so that  _you_  can, try and go deep into your 'mind palace' and find some memory you lost?" 

"Yes, problem?" Sherlock responded, in that snarky way of his. He was moving his knee up and down while glancing about 'Camelot.' He hated this whole conversation and just wanted to go, into his mind palace. He wanted to start looking, through everything that he had, for that special piece of info on John.

Sherlock was currently sitting on a barstool, at the bar obviously, while the male behind the bar leaned against it, and looked directly into his eyes, his face. The male was frowning. Sherlock hated it when people frowned. It just reminded him of John, and all of the times that Sherlock disappointed John. Why didn't this male understand that what he was about to do, right now, was for the good of the cause? He needed to remember, something,  _anything_ , that might be related to the object Sherlock has, the one that he needs to burn, in order to  _save_ John.

"My name may be Merlin, but I am certainly  _not_  a wizard Sherlock. If I give you  _any_  combination that is even the  _slightest_  bit too much...you're going to  _die_ ," Merlin spoke. He took his hands off of the bartable and folded them before placing them down again. The male then resumed looking into Sherlock's eyes. Were his words going to sink in? Would they take hold in this male's brain. No, probably not. Who has  _ever_  managed to talk  _sense_  into Sherlock Holmes?

The detective continued moving his knee up and down. He leaned his face against his hand and his hand against the bartable. Sherlock tapped the table, over and over again, with the fingers on his free hand. He looked, at a single object on the wall, as if it mesmerized him. If, he hadn't opened his mouth, one might think he was reconsidering the whole idea. Which he wasn't. Of course he wasn't. This  _is_ Sherlock we are talking about here.

"I trust you," Sherlock said. The words came out so easily, that it was almost hard to believe them, but they must be believed. Merlin sighed, clearly the male in front of him wasn't going to get it. Now now, not ever, it reminded him of someone else he knew.  

"That's the thing Sherlock, I don't trust me," he said, sighing. Why did people always ask him to do this sort of thing? He just wanted to run a bar, with Arthur, and live a happy  _quiet_  life. Was that too much to ask? He wasn't meant to be some drug maker, making 'potions' on the side while people drank. 

"You should have more faith in yourself Merlin," Arthur spoke up, slapping Merlin on the back. Merlin hated it when he did that. He hated it most when Arthur smiled too. Why does he have to be married to the world's most adorable blonde?

"Are you going to do it or not?" Sherlock grumbled. This was taking so much longer than he wanted it to. Why was convincing people so difficult? If only John was here...

"Nobody move! Nobody blink! I swear that isn't just a statue! It's a living creature! Don't blink! Whatever you do,  _don't blink_!" Ten jumped into Eleven's arms as he let out a little scream. He'd always wanted to do that. Jumping into someone's arms seemed fun...even if he was just hugging himself at this point. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, obviously not believing the lunatic. Really? Moving statues? What was this world coming to? Shaking his head he laid down on multiple chairs. Might as well sleep. If he could sleep he could concentrate on his mind palace better. Who knows how long it would take for Merlin to get that 'potion' ready...

"Do you seriously think we'd believe that? It's just a statue!" Dean complained.

"Uh, no, Dean...it moved," Sam spoke. Dean turned to look, sure enough, the statue was in a completely different position. What sorcery was this? That statues could be living creatures? And this, my friends, is why you stick to hunting ghosts, not aliens. 

"We are going to die," Dean stated, "I know we have faced a lot of weird stuff before...but moving statues? No. Nope. I think this is how we die Sam. This is it. It's official."

"Okay everyone, remain calm, as long as  _one_  of us is looking at it we should be okay," Eleven spoke up, dropping Ten. 

Everyone tried to remain as calm as possible, but it didn't quite work...especially when the lights started flickering. Each time they went out, the statue moved. There was no way to protect themselves against it. One of them was going to get touched. One of them was going to get sent into the past. But who? Which individual? How long would it take before they all were doomed?

The lights flickered on and off, on and off, like a strobe light. Movement seemed to be in slow-motion, even though it was quite the opposite. When the lights flickered on again, and someone was missing; you could almost hear the heart beats filled with panic. Sherlock however, who was trying to sleep this whole time, couldn't care less about what was going on. He continued to lay there, on the multiple chairs, 'concentrating.' 

"Where is Sammy?" Dean questioned. He wanted to go over and strangle the Doctors. It was  _their_ fault that this was happening. Okay. No. Not really. It wasn't their fault at all. But to a man who just lost his brother for the *insert number here* time. What does it matter whose fault it is? Blame the first person you see. It's easier that way.

"Now, now, let's just focus on one thing at a time here. 'Count your blessings' and all that," Ten began, "Good News: The lights have stopped flickering. Bad News: Your brother was sent into the past and will probably die there."

Silence filled the room. Such a shame to loose good ol' Sam. But, there wasn't anything to be done about that. Was there? Nope. 

Just kidding.

We won't kill off Sam this early.

The Doctors stared at each other in amazement when they heard the familiar 'whooshing' sound of the TARDIS. Could it be? Yet  _another_  doctor? The Blue Box appeared before the small group. Even with this strange box now here, Sherlock was still 'concentrating' in the background. He seriously pondered whether or not he should throw a shoe at one of them. Would that silence the racket?

The TARDIS door opened and an older-gentlemen poked his head out. He nodded in approval at the sight and threw out Sam, before rushing back into the blue box and disappearing. 

"He seems familiar," Ten spoke allowed. He could've sworn that he had seen that face before but didn't understand why. 

Meanwhile Sam was rocking back and forth on the floor very confuzzled, "I don't understand. I was here and then I wasn't. I opened the door...and it was bigger on the inside! What is the universe coming to?"

"There are two of them now!" Dean pointed out. Yes, there were two weeping angels now. The new angel must've hopped onto the back of the TARDIS and transported here with it. Somehow, in some way, the two angels managed to get into the position of holding each other. They were now forever stuck gazing into the other's eyes with loving smiles on their faces.

"That's kind of cute...you know...in a crazy-weeping-angel-love sort of way," Eleven smiled, "they won't be causing any trouble...not for a while at least."

"Will you lot just  _shut_   _up_?!" Sherlock yelled. He took off one of his shoes and threw it in such a way that it bounced off all of their heads. Satisfied, he laid down once more. He was determined. Lucky for him, Merlin had just finished making the concoction he so desperately desired. 

"I'm going to be the one who killed Sherlock Holmes," Merlin sighed, resting his head on the bartable. 

"Nah, I'm pretty sure one of them will beat you to it," Arthur pointed, to the angry group rubbing their heads. There was a new addition to the group. He 'poofed' just in time for the shoe throwing. The shoe had hit him in the back of the head and forced him to crash into Dean, causing an accidental kiss between the two.

"Cas? What the hell?!" Dean rubbed his mouth on his shirt's sleeve to try and rid himself of the angel cooties.

Cas, who didn't seem very affected by the whole thing, simply stated, "they're coming," before passing out and falling into Dean.  He looked pretty beat up. But  _what_  exactly could have caused that? Dean didn't know; neither did the rest of them. The simple fact that an  _angel_  could be exhausted was enough to make them concerned. As if they didn't have enough things to worry about...

What could be worse than Jimjohn?


	15. League of Villians

Jimjohn, or more specifically Jim, walked into a bar with the name of 'Inferno.' He thought it was classy, for no particular reason, and felt it would be a great place to pick up some...'coworkers.' Who would go to a bar called 'Inferno' without having at least a  _ tiny _ bit of mischief in their blood? Honestly, let's be real here. 

The bartender smiled, (or was it a smirk?) before asking what he'd like to drink. Jim smiled in return, a true, genuine, smile (which really just looked like a smirk too). He didn't give an answer and simply allowed the bartender to decide. Besides, he didn't have any money on him except what was left in Richard Brook's pocket. So, he wouldn't be paying for this drink. Sorry, not sorry. But really, if you name your bar 'Inferno' expect some demons to walk in. Otherwise, don't name it after Hell. Birds of a feather flock together, the same is true for the Devil's minions. Holy things will bother unholy things. That's always been the truth.

"What brings you here?" the bartender asked. "It's not often we get a newbie. Many walk straight past this place once they see the name 'Inferno.'"

"Well," Jim began, "that's a real shame. I quite like the name."

"I quite like the name too, funnily enough," a woman with dark hair, pulled up into a bun, smiled before taking a sip of her drink. Jim thought she gave off a very 'Irene Adler' type vibe. The thing is, this woman seemed a bit more, well, mischievous? That didn't seem right. That couldn't be the right word. Jim was disappointed in himself for not being able to think of anything better. Well, no matter, the moral of the story is: he liked her.

"Me as well," a male on the other side of Jim snickered as if he was enjoying a type of inside joke. Jim liked him too. He didn't have a single clue as to why he liked these people, but he did, so that's that. 

A different bartender walked up to the collection of people and hung his arm around the already existing bartender's neck. "See? I told you naming this place 'Inferno' was a great idea. You didn't believe me, Thing 1. I'm hurt. You really should have more faith in your brother from another mother," he said. Jim observed that the two individuals both had 'Crowley' on their name-tags. Coincidence? Jim thought not. Jim wondered if it was in relationship to Aleister Crowley, an English occultist in the early 20th Century. No, perhaps not, but it would be entertaining, no? These Crowleys couldn't have been related, they looked nothing alike, but they clearly had a bond over their names. Wouldn't anyone? It's not often you meet another person with the  _ exact _ same name as your own. 

"It doesn't count when the two people that like this name are also people that have been coming here everyday for the past week or so," Crowley rolled his eyes.

"I like the name nonetheless," the woman smiled. "By the way, I'm Missy," she said, turning her attention back to Jim.

"I'm the Master," the other man said. Jim snickered. So, two Crowleys, a woman with a name that clearly came from 'Mistress,' and a male named Master, today was really turning out to be quite interesting. Perhaps Jim could convince this odd collection of individuals to help him. That's why he was here in the first place, after all.

"I don't suppose you lot would enjoy causing mayhem, would you?" Jim asked.

"That depends on the type, doesn't it?" Crowley, the first bartender, said. 

"And when, where, how, what, or  _ who _ ," Missy and the Master said at the same time.

Jim snickered, "What if I told you that I was the cause of the serial murders? And that I was being followed around by a couple of brothers, a detective, and two doctors," Jim paused, "no, make that two and a half doctors. One of them is causing a bit of trouble in my mind."

"I would say that sounds like a bit of fun," Crowley, the second bartender, said. "I've always liked serial killers. They have this kind of, I don't know how to say it,  _ fun _ about them."

"Now, when you say 'doctors' do you mean..." the Master began.

" _ The _ Doctors?" Missy finished.

"If you come along, I'm sure you'll find out soon enough," Jim winked. 

"If you insist," Missy said. She stood up and wiped some dirt off of her skirt. "Don't just sit there, let's get started! It's time to have  _ fun _ ! This is the most interesting thing that has happened to me in  _ days _ , darling,  _ days _ , I'm not about to let you sit here and do nothing! Let's go! Chop, chop!" Missy clapped her hands in front of Jim's face to 'motivate' him. The consulting criminal needn't be told twice. He stood up and walked out of the bar with four new companions. This should be entertaining, to say the least.

They hadn't taken two steps from Inferno before being stopped by some good-doer. A certain angel that everyone knows, and sometimes loves, 'poofed' right in front of them. "Stop," he began, "I won't just let you have your way."

"It's always  _ something _ ," Crowley sighed. "You guys go on ahead, I'll catch up."

"Goodbye, Crowley," the other Crowley wiped away a fake tear from his eye, "I'll remember you always, right here, in my heart," he said before he placed a hand over his heart and continued his fake sobbing.

"What heart? You and I both know you don't have one, Aziraphale took it."

"Now, don't be jealous, it's an ugly color on you."

"I'd hate to break up this lovely farewell party, but, we have places to be," Missy walked over to a blue box and opened the door. The Master walked over to his own blue box and did the same. Jim followed Missy while Crowley, the second bartender, followed the Master.

"I need to get me one of these," Jim stared at the interior of the Police Box, which just so happened to be bigger on the inside.

"Oh, funny, most people are too confuzzled to admire it when they first walk in," Missy said.

"Well, I'm not 'most people,'" Jim smiled. It's true, he most certainly wasn't 'most people.' But, then again, neither was anyone else. At the moment, he was surrounded by the unordinary and loving every minute of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley (Good Omens) and Crowley (Supernatural) are BOTH in this. Try not to get confused.   
> And yes, Crowley (Good Omens) is supposed to be played by David Tennant...thus...10 and Crowley look exactly the same (but at the same time totally different).  
> Since I know less about Crowley (Supernatural) 9 times out of 10 Crowley (Good Omens) is going to be the one I'm talking about.


End file.
